An evening at The Red Pavilion
opening our hearts to the sounds of Snow Raven
I can’t remember the last time I made a sound with my voice that wasn’t speaking or singing, and frankly, even singing is a tall order if I’m in public.
As I grow older, the deeper down I pushed the desire to do weird stuff. I distinctly remember as an eight-year-old, making this weird sound with my best friend Alex—we’d communicate with it everywhere. At sleepovers, in the courtyard at school wearing our pleated skirts and green polos, and on the weekends hanging out around each other’s pools. (If you really want to hear this sound, I still remember how to make it, and will send you a voice note). I remember writing all over my arms and legs with milky pens “Can we have a sleepover?” with my friend Vanessa and hysterically galloping down the spiral staircase to present our tattooed bodies, pleading to our parents to let her stay the night. (They said yes.) I remember in middle school, in the town library, making up a method of communication with Melanie that involved flaring our nostrils inside of cupped hands and laughing so hard when people caught glimpses of us doing this gesture.
My list goes on and on—I was truly a weird kid. and slowly, as I grew up, I pushed this part of me away. When I moved from Florida to Connecticut at the age of 10, I felt like I had been stripped of the “fun”. Not only was the culture so different between Southern Florida and Connecticut, but I had also left a community of people that were loud, colorful, full of life and culture. This community of immigrants and long-time Floridians raised me. When we moved north, I unwillingly traded that in for a rather staid and closed-off crowd. If you’ve been to New England before, you’re likely familiar with this culture I’m describing. And it felt as though if you didn’t grow up there, or have roots in this region, you’d have a hard time fitting in. My friends in Connecticut had parents that were doctors and educators and serious lawyer types, and everyone lived in quiet wooded homes.
When I was 11, my mum met Two Feathers. Two Feathers owned a little shop right next door to my father’s factory, and my mum would always take us across to visit. Her shop was entrancing, and became a home for us. We felt as though we belonged in her presence and were always welcomed in. I saved up my money to buy things from her often. I bought lots of stones and arrowheads, and her shop was always filled with the heavy scent of sage and tobacco. One of my favorite purchases was a medicine bag filled with a myriad of protective items. I proudly put it around my neck. The next day, I wore it to school with an outfit that I’ve mentioned to you all before—that all white, flax linen playsuit, with its billowy sleeves and palazzo pants and topped with the medicine bag, I felt as though I was in my prime. But instead, I was met with ridicule. This became a core memory for me, and something that I referenced not to do ever again in hopes that I would better fit in. I spent the rest of my school years wearing Hollister and skater shoes.
Enter last weekend: Allison and I impulsively bought tickets to experience a “sound bath” in the beautiful jewel-box of a space—the Red Pavilion. This newly opened concept was dreamt up by Shien Lee and Zoey Gong, and hopes to serve as a platform to amplify Asian voices. We came to see Snow Raven, who I had only heard of a few days prior. Snow Raven is a Siberian Shamanic sound artist. She is a presence, and her powerful aura filled the space as she sat on the stage and adjusted her mic. When she opened her mouth to sing, I felt as though I had been sucked into a new time in another dimension, and I could feel the base of my heart recalling something beyond this lifetime. She made the cries of a baby, cutting through her beautiful song with a jarring, staccato-like break in the music. I was taken aback, firstly by how accurate the sound coming from her body was, and was also thrown by how genuinely she committed to showing up and to potentially sounding strange.
For two hours we followed her into the depths of a captivating sound journey. She weaved in stories of her upbringing in Siberia, and performed sounds of the natural world that shocked and delighted us throughout the night. The sounds of wind, and birds, and deep-chested chanting filled the room.
According to Siberian Shamans, there are levels to our existence. There is the underworld, based on fear and lack, there is the upper world that is based on gratitude, and in between, our earthly plane, is filled with love.
“How may we return to love?” She asked us.
Filled to the brim, we were invited to try some animal sounds ourselves. I was dreading this–the little Maya who was ostracized for her medicine bag recoiled at this invitation. But before I knew it, Allison and I were attempting to make the sounds of a spring crow–a guttural squawk of sorts, and imitating a seagull, which is created on an inhale (this is very hard to do). I was laughing to the point of tears. But as I laughed out of what was initially discomfort, I felt myself opening. Like a tight bud that had been afraid to open to its fullest point of bloom, I was being asked to unfold. By the time we tried the reindeer sounds, which are basically a precursor to throat singing, I was welcoming the curiosity of discovering what my body could do without judgment.
That evening, Snow Raven shared with us her love of sound–all sound. She invited us to share our own unique voice with the world, because each of us holds a distinct tone that only we can share. What a gift that is. We closed the evening with a collective hum, each of us breathing into the space and rolling the note between our inhales and exhales. Snow Raven topped our collective voice with an indigenous prayer. We placed our right hands over our hearts, and our left cupped our livers.
I am not afraid to be weird and make noise.
And because it’s difficult to describe this experience in just words alone, here is a little medicine from our collective prayer.