
When we spoke, Cindy served as the choir director for Ananda Sangha in Seattle, Washington. Since that time she has moved to Portland where she remains active in the music ministry.
Q: Tell us about your early background in music, and how you became interested in Ananda’s music.
Cindy: I came from a family that loved music – my mother started teaching me ukulele when I was eight, and from there I started reading chord charts, and then I began to teach myself guitar. I started out learning from pop books, and singing and accompanying myself on the guitar, but I did not like singing. Singing hurt, and it felt strained. So that’s actually how I got into classical guitar, because I didn’t need to use my voice. [Laughs] Which is ironic, because in the Seattle Ananda Center I’m now known as a singer.
But I really enjoyed music. It wasn’t my only thing, but it’s where my energy flowed pretty well, and where opportunities opened up as I got older. I was also interested in science, and now I’m working with computers – I manage the website for Ananda Seattle, and I’ve always had an active left brain that went along with the feeling side.
Music has always been part of my life. I took classical guitar lessons from age fifteen to seventeen, and then the teacher said that I had more or less reached the level where he was on the guitar, but I was lacking in my knowledge of music theory, so I decided to major in music, and I entered the music program at UC Santa Cruz. For my first two years of college I did general studies in music, since there wasn’t anything available in classical guitar at the time, and for my ensemble work I did Javanese gamelan, which was fun, and I had an interest in ethnomusicology and music from around the world.
After studying music for two years, I changed my major to philosophy. I’ve always had a philosophical bent. In those early years I was thinking of music as a universal language, but I was thinking of it in a way that didn’t quite work, in terms of physical properties such as the major fifth being a physical resonance that you can figure out mathematically and apply to exert a harmonious emotional effect on the listener.
I thought it was something you would find in all music, and then you could explain why music is pleasurable by using objective principles that way. But when I learned about ethnomusicology I found that not all instruments use the principle of resonance in the same way – for example, an instrument like the didgeridoo doesn’t use harmonies in the way we’re used to. And of course when I reached the point in music theory where we were learning about the tempered scale in western music, my perplexity only increased.
That sort of threw me for a loop, because it got me thinking that maybe music isn’t a universal language after all. In Javanese gamelan, for example, there’s a planned dissonance that is an important part of the whole. If the intervals, the fifths and so forth, were exactly tuned together, the music would be considered flawed. It’s the imperfection of the overtones that makes a unique characteristic of the music.
So it was all sort of throwing me for a loop, and I was thinking that maybe music isn’t a universal language, and maybe it’s more culturally based.
And then as I studied philosophy, there was the influence of postmodernism, Foucault and all of that, and my worldview was being kind of taken apart, and I began to wonder if there was any order that you could rely on at all.
So, in terms of both music and philosophy, I experienced a breakdown of the sense of meaning, and I ended up dropping out of college.
I spent ten years working with deaf people, partly because I wanted to experience what life would be like without sound. When I was taking guitar lessons in high school, I was so immersed in music. I was practicing at least four hours a day and often more, and on weekends when I wasn’t working I might practice eight hours. But when I started to think that maybe music wasn’t a universal source of inspiration, I went to the opposite extreme. If sound and music aren’t a universal thing, I wanted to see what a life might be like without music, and what fulfillments someone would have without sound.
So I learned American Sign Language, and I pursued that for ten years, and I was still working with deaf people when I came to Ananda.
I had deliberately thrown music out of my life, and I even got rid of my guitars. I had a partner who was deaf and who needed to remind me to stop being so immersed in the deaf community. But I do tend to get immersed in things, and I went as far as always turning the sound off on the TV because I didn’t want to have experiences that we couldn’t share.
When I found Ananda, the music in the Seattle Ananda center was at a low ebb, because Dharmadas and Nirmala had left, and I wasn’t drawn in by the music initially – I don’t think I was ready for it, and I was drawn in more by meditation and the search for God.
Q: Were you putting the world back together after Foucault destroyed it for you?
Cindy: I ended up being pretty depressed, but nothing ever happens in a vacuum. I was going through some life experiences that magnetized me toward a fairly dismal view – I had this worldview of “Nothing is meaningful, nothing is worth living for.” But I had grown up in an area that was strong with alternative and metaphysical influences, and my mother did astrology, so I’ve always had some alternative perspectives, and when I saw that I was approaching my Saturn return, in the years leading up to age thirty, I just knew that I was at a point where I needed to figure out what to do with my life.
I knew that I had a good left brain, and I decided to go to a community college and learn computers. So at twenty-eight I started to learn about computers because I thought it would be a good career for me, and I did really well, and it was effortless. But toward the end the depression came right back, and I felt like I wasn’t doing the right thing.
While working with deaf people, I had realized that what really does have meaning for me is service, and so I decided not to go into a computer field and earn a lot of money, but just keep on serving, and that awakened an expansive attitude that may have been there all along, but I came to realize how important it was. And that was just a few years before I found Ananda.
From there, good things started coming through the back door. I used to listen to rock music, but I no longer do, even though it was a normal part of my environment. I had a co-worker who was an enthusiastic born-again Christian, and he would always change the radio in the van at the group home to a Christian rock station when he drove, and I would always change it back to a regular mainstream rock station when I drove. But one time when I got in the van it was playing Christian rock and I just started feeling a real thirst for it, and eventually I came to realize that I was very thirsty to drink in spiritual influences.
I had studied A Course in Miracles long before, and I began carrying around some phrases from that to look at while I was in the work van, like at stoplights or waiting for clients at their workplaces and so forth, and I started to feel a growing hunger for the Light. At one point I started to feel “I really wish I believed in Christianity, because I would love to be a nun.” [Laughs]
I had relatives who were Catholic, and some who were Jewish, and I felt I couldn’t follow either of those paths because I was drawn to something more universal.
I decided to take a meditation class through the Ananda East West Bookshop in Seattle, and I wouldn’t have taken the class through the church, because I wasn’t interested in churches, with all the baggage I associated with them. But after three class series I found out that it was connected to a church, and by then I was hooked.
After about a year, when my schedule opened up, I started going to service, and I was soon asked to play guitar, since there was a need. So that’s how I got to Ananda. It was pure magnetism, and music sort of slid in there with me, even though I wasn’t drawn in by the music initially.
Soon after, Larry and Prem-Shanti Rider moved to Seattle, and there was finally someone to guide the music.
Because of my background, with the philosophical stance of “nothing matters” and a sort of inner anarchy, listening to rock music and so forth, there was a coarseness that came through my playing. But I was inspired by the Festival of Light, and I wanted to tune into that, more as a meditation than as music, and at one point I decided to just listen. I thought to stop trying to put out the music, because I felt something in me that was getting in the way, and I decided to be quiet and just experience for a bit.
When Larry and Prem-Shanti arrived, the music was in disarray, and the word went out that they would do all of the music and everybody else should step back for a bit. I was pleased with that, and I thought, “Well, great – I just want to listen for a while anyway.” And after a while they started to ask me to do the music with them.
That period of listening was wonderful. We think of music as self-expression, something you do and something that people admire. The way we experience music in this culture is an exhibitionistic thing, and it was so valuable just to listen, and not only listen to the music but listen to the environment that the music came out of, and see that the environment was even more meaningful than the music.
I remember someone saying that Swami had told them, “It’s not about the music.” And I feel it’s an important thing to hold onto. It’s not about the music. The music is an expression of an original inspiration. It’s a part of the environment that expresses that inspiration. So it was very helpful to me to take the time to tune into that idea for a while.
The next step came when I joined the choir for a wedding, and that carried me even more deeply into the music.
Q: How is your time split now between guitar and singing?
Cindy: I don’t have a lot of investment in guitar; it’s something I do as a service. Still, I must have some karma there, because it gives back so much. As I mentioned, I’ve always been uncomfortable singing. When I was young I didn’t like to sing. I have a low voice, so I’m an alto, and at school as a child I was always dropping an octave when the notes got too high, and if the teacher heard me she would say, “Get back up there with everybody else.” And I guess it was partly why I didn’t like to sing.
But the first time I visited Ananda Village my throat somehow opened up and I realized that I had a rich, resonant voice. It was a very nice experience of opening the throat chakra. I like telling that story to convey that it’s not about the music, but it’s about the attunement to a higher vibration.
I’ve led the Seattle choir for close to ten years. About a year ago I became more aware that people are more uncomfortable singing high notes than they need to be. Partly, it’s harder, so the ego can become involved, but it’s also the strain on those underused muscles. I’ve been very interested in some “bubbling” and “trilling” techniques that Chaitanya taught, and how they relax the throat and can help you reach notes that weren’t attainable before because of tightness in the muscles.
These techniques are helping me sing with greater ease. I find it’s a helpful way to relax and get past the muscles to what our souls are trying to express through our voices. I’m exploring how the voice is more relaxed when I’m feeling in tune with a higher vibration. Music is part of my path, and I’m exploring how I can relax physically and let the soul come through.
Q: Physical tension is an issue that others have talked about in these conversations. I remember asking Chaitanya, “How are you able to sing the high notes with such ease and smoothness?” He said, “Singing this music changes your voice.” Karen G had me try some of the things you’re exploring, like bubbling and trilling, because she said they help her smooth her voice before she practices and performs.
Cindy: I feel that to an extent it’s about learning to sing free of the heaviness of the body. It’s interesting to see how the choir might be struggling with a song in practice, and then in performance where our energy is completely committed the result can exceed all our expectations.
When we’re focusing on the vibration more than on any discomfort or nervousness, the high notes come loud and clear. So we’re working with the discovery that when the energy is right the song tends to come through clearly. Our choir errs on the side of relying on tuning ourselves to a vibration and giving less energy to technique, and it’s taken us an impressive distance.
I’m trying to see how the choir can blend technique and inspiration. Our souls have put us in the situation of singing this music, and we’re aspiring to work together on applying our bodies in service to communicating that vibration. We have to remind ourselves to open our mouths. [Laughs] Because there are mechanics that can bring us closer to the vibration, bring us closer to our true angelic singing selves. But people don’t like talking about mechanics, so it’s subtle to do it without making people feel that we’re going off on a tangent that’s taking us away from the inspiration.
When I was young and practicing for hours a day, I could easily get into the technique, and it’s been a balance to approach this music from the opposite end. As a choir director and singer, I’m trying to figure out how to bring those elements together without letting the technique become a distraction.
Q: Is there a process you teach for smoothing out the voice?
Cindy: I’m mostly emphasizing being aware of what you’re doing even before you open your mouth. I tell them to start by listening. I’ll play a note on the guitar and have them wait and sing it mentally before they do anything with the voice, then I’ll have them sing it, and the response has been dramatic.
Before I started to emphasize listening, the energy was much more scattered and the choir might be as much as a half-step off, and they weren’t aware that they were singing a completely different note. But when they listen and make the effort to take in the note mentally before they sing it, they’ve gotten to where they can almost always sing the note spot-on.
At Sunday morning rehearsals, where we don’t have much time, I’ll condense our warm-ups with focused concentration, but for our regular practices, depending on the energy, I might follow the opening prayer with a brief silence to give us an opportunity to tune ourselves to the silence that the music comes from. And then I’ll say, “Now, from that silence let’s start singing.”
As far as mechanics, it depends on the songs we’re singing. We’ve been practicing songs from the Oratorio, and because bubbling makes it easier to sing the high noteswe’re doing a lot more of it during warm-ups. Then, if the sopranos are straining on the high notes I’ll have them bubble those high notes and they’ll find it a lot easier to sing them.
I’m doing the things that seem most appropriate in the moment, so they can see results right away, instead of feeling that we’re doing exercises as a meaningless drill.
Q: Are you saying that when our consciousness is in the right place, the music comes out better?
Cindy: Oh, yes! It’s backward to practice the music and wait to see what the results are. It’s much more helpful to see how much inspiration we can feel if we aim for a certain consciousness from the start, and then try to align our voices in attunement with that consciousness.
I love something that David Eby says when he directs a choir: “Think of the energy behind the music, and the energy behind the first phrase. Now sing the first phrase with that energy.”
It’s wonderful to start with the consciousness of the song and then see what the song does to our consciousness.
At Ananda we aren’t always trying to do things the most efficient way, yet when we’re asked to do something that feels counter-intuitive or impossible we find that there’s a way. And with the music we find that if we set the energy right the issues somehow get worked out.
Q: In Cities of Light Swami Kriyananda says that Ananda’s music is not a peripheral part of what we’re doing, but that it’s central. Do you feel that it’s true? When you’re conducting and singing, do you feel that you’re doing something that pleases Master, and that it’s a spiritual service to others?
Cindy: When you listen to a Sunday sermon, it’s easy to get caught up in the intellectual connections to science, philosophy, and useful hints, but the music brings out a dimension that can’t come through the spoken word. Music can give us a feeling of pure inspiration very directly, a pure and direct reminder of the goal. Maybe it isn’t an experience of cosmic consciousness, but there’s a hint of that level of awareness in it, sufficient to grab our attention and be very pleasing.
We all tend to have our fixed ways of thinking, but music can carry us into a more expansive perspective. The music pushes us very subtly past certain limitations we may not have realized were there in our consciousness. And in that way I think Ananda’s music creates a crack for the Light to shine through.