Starting Over

Happy 2006 all. I don't know where to begin. I guess I can begin by saying that I filled up my Moleskine notebook. I started it at the beginning of 2005 and I used up all the pages by the end of 2005. That's quite a feat if you ask me. I am the world's biggest sucker for notebooks, and have started way more notebooks than I have ever actually finished. Stationery stores are horrible places for me to go to because I know that I can't just walk out of there empty-handed. No. There will always be some sort of notebook I find that I think I can absolutlely not function without. I love paper and notebooks are like beautiful little paper museums.

I hadn't really meant for this notebook to document a particular year. I originally had started using it to make little sketches for future art projects. Then I decided I needed a notebook for Taiko Conference, and I grabbed it as I headed out the door for L.A. And then I figured since I had some taiko notes in there already that I would use it for making notes for the Aiko Taiko pieces we were learning. Then I started carrying it everywhere I went so I could practice the taiko pieces. Then when I felt the urge to write stuff down in a journal, this notebook was there, so what the heck, it's a journal too. And then it was a good place to stuff papers I didn't want to lose. The only problem now is that I'm really attached to this notebook, but it's full. I've never had this problem before.

But you know what? I've got to let it go. I'm going to start a new notebook. This is just like the other one, but it has more pages. And my new notebook was given to me by my mother. We lost Mom in early December, and that's why I haven't really blogged for a long time. And my heart is all broken, and I haven't really touched my bachi since the concert, and my shime is sitting in the same place I left it, no tension on it, silent. Like me. 2005 was the best and worst year all wrapped up into one.

Now it is time to start over. Have you heard Baaba Maal's album, Missing You? If not, go out and buy it. It is heartache and hope, and it is beautiful. Words fail me. Listen to that album. That is what I feel like. I miss her.

Today I saw my writing teacher. Did you know that I am a writer? Only, I am a writer who does not write, which means I am not a writer at all. If you're a writer, or you know writers, then you must know that they are very strict people, most notably, strict on themselves. And so self critical. Like if you don't write everyday, then you're not a writer at all. For writers, serious writers, writing is life, and you continually flog yourself into writing until you can produce a paragraph or a page or a chapter. That turns me off about writing. There is always the threat of failure. Maybe that's why I'm a writer that does not write. Anyhow, my teacher asked me if I was writing, and I told her no, not really, and that it had been a while, but that I was thinking of writing again. She was taken aback a little. She asked, have you regressed so far back that you are only thinking about writing? I told her that even thinking about writing was a feat in itself. I think she was disappointed. I think there is a book in me still; I told her this. We parted ways.

You know, the thing that I love about taiko is that there is no guilt in it for me. No self-inflicted flogging. When you write, it is always a struggle. You can't be satisfied until you produce pages of text, and even when you do, every word choice and character is something that should be critiqued and doubted. When and where is the joy? I'm sure there are writers out there who can argue with me. I don't care. I love the immediacy of taiko. You hit the drum and it responds to you. You feel its don. You rejoice in the ka's. And when you play with other people, it doesn't matter what language you speak or how old you are or where you come from, the thing is is that you're playing together and you're connected and the taiko community is so kind and supportive to one another. My approach to taiko is that don't bother playing at all unless you bring your joy to it. Don't play taiko unless it brings joy to you.

If there really is that book in me, it will come. I won't force it. Maybe I'll even scribble some notes for it in my new moleskine. On Monday, I think I'll go back to taiko. I've been away for a long time, but my hands remember. They play the desk and my lap without me telling them to. They remember ratamacues and pieces of all those solos I worked so hard on. My soul could use a big ol' don to rattle the bones. There is still joy in me somewhere.