My fingers are reeking of chopped garlic, I’m up to my elbows in autumn greens and chicken, and trying to figure out whether the Turkish musicians need rosewater for their tea, if the Spaniards would blanch if I added zucchini to their beloved tortilla Espanola, or the Indonesians would dismiss my basa gede. Over a lifetime of becoming an artist, never in my wildest dreams was it ever my intention to become den mother to scores of musicians from around the world. But here I am, cooking again for the third straight time for the International Body Music Festival happening here November 1-6 in San Francisco.
Among other things I am a part-time caterer. Jupiter and Uranus are close to conjunct in my 5th House in Cancer, and Ceres is in my 11th House in Capricorn. I do fret about nurturing others — that comes with the territory — yet that fretting makes me feel totally alive and completely aware, especially when I’m at the stove. Thank goddesses for Capricorn, which helps me plan enough ahead of time to spring into improvisational dishes if something fails in my plans.
Up until a few years ago, even as a dancer and an actor, I thought music and musicians were part of a religion and a priesthood — an exclusive club that was not for me. It wasn’t until I started taking class with Keith Terry, percussionist, dancer, teacher and maestro of body music forms from around the globe, that I began to recognize a form of musicianship inside of me.
The body is the first instrument. The first music we hear is in the womb. Inside our mothers, we heard their hearts beat as we were nurtured safe in a cocoon of flesh and blood. We joined with them in a musical duet of life. That instinct from the womb is a natural legacy, a global commonality.