Last night I returned from what has become the most consistent annual mile marker in my life, the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. I first attended on a lark after seeing a poster on the bulletin board of a local music store in 1983. Among the stellar roster of musicians listed on the poster was New Grass Revival, who I’d seen—and been wowed by—several times in Bloomington, Indiana, in the ’70s. If New Grass was going to be in Telluride, so would I.

If you’ve ever been to Telluride, you will know I’m not exaggerating when I say that this picturesque little hamlet sits in one of the most gorgeous box canyons anywhere. The whole experience was stunning—the scenery, the amazing musicianship, the unusual musical collaborations, the beatific crowd. I haven’t missed a Telluride Bluegrass Festival since then.

No matter where I’m working or living, I make time in my schedule for Telluride. The third week of June is off limits to anything else. Many times I don’t bother to visit the website to look at the roster of musicians before the festival. I just know that it will be phenomenal, and I’ve never been disappointed.

In 1984, I began a working relationship with the festival. My husband at the time wrote a pre-festival promotional article for a local independent, and I shot photos. This gained us access to the press area in front of the stage, more notoriously known as the “poser’s pit.” Being able to see the musicians—their flying fingers and accompanying facial gestures, as well as their entertaining off-mic banter drew me in. I continued shooting photos for seven years, produced their festival program for four years, and have written feature articles in the program since the early 1990s.

I’ve come to know the production, security and backstage crews, as well as some of the musicians whose talents often leave me stunned. In the past 28 years, the luckiest of these have aged and mellowed; others have passed on. This year, I was sad to learn that one of my favorite Telluride characters, Jack Carey, a longtime press pit security guy, lost his life not long after the 2009 festival in a bicycle accident involving a head-on crash with a pickup truck.

In April of each year, I get to research and write two or more articles for the festival program. I love this because it puts me in my “festival head” two months before the event. Most of my research involves talking with people who likewise cherish the festival. The joy and anticipation are contagious. From that point until the time I round Society Turn on the road into town, I think of my upcoming trip to Telluride and smile.

This year I was honored to write about one of my favorite festival regulars, Peter Rowan. I met Peter in 1994. Like me, Peter practices Buddhism, and we’ve had a number of interesting conversations about the nature of life and practice. No matter what he chooses to present at Telluride—and it changes from year to year—his music has a spiritual undertow that resonates profoundly with my own musical sensibilities.

For his 2010 festival appearance, Peter would reunite with four other venerable Telluride regulars—Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, Viktor Krauss and Larry Atamanuik—to play as Crucial Country. Crucial Country’s last appearance was in 1994, and it’s no exaggeration to say this set of music was transcendent. I was not alone in experiencing this. Planet Bluegrass, the company that produces the festival, made Crucial Country’s 1994 set available on CD. Even Sam Bush, who just celebrated his 36th Telluride, told me he left the stage thinking it was the most fun he’d ever had playing the festival.

From many years of seeing the Grateful Dead, I know that sometimes the magic happens, and sometimes it doesn’t. I know that no truly magical event can ever be reproduced. I’m also clear about the fact that expectation breeds disappointment. So while I wasn’t expecting this year’s Crucial Country experience to be a carbon copy of 1994’s, I can’t honestly say I was not without some glimmer of anticipation.

Whatever anticipation I might have been feeling crashed when I woke up Friday morning, the day of the Crucial Country set (as well as another of my favorites, Hot Rize), with a sour stomach and chills. I felt truly awful, wanting nothing more than to be horizontal, wrapped in blankets to ease the shivers while sipping ginger tea.

The internal conflict was overwhelming. I didn’t want to miss a moment of music—and there was lots to look forward to that day—yet I didn’t see how I could walk to the festival and then sit in the blistering high-altitude sun for hours when I was struggling to sit up in bed. Not wanting to miss the day’s opener, cellist Ben Sollee, I went. I loved his music, but my body was just too weak. I walked back to my room and slept for three hours.

In the hours of fitful rest, each awakening brought the question of whether I’d go back to the festival at all that day. Most of the time the answer was no. When my partner, Phillip, returned to the room for a brief respite, he encouraged me to return just for Crucial Country and Hot Rize. I vacillated endlessly, mainly because I wasn’t sure I had the strength for the walk to the festival grounds. And what if I got there and felt so bad I couldn’t walk back?

We made it to the press pit just in time for the start of Crucial Country. I dearly wished to enjoy the show, but I didn’t have the energy even to tap my foot. My body was freezing, even as most of the 10,000 souls on the field were boiling in the midafternoon sun. About three songs into the show, longing to be supine again, I whispered to Phillip that I needed to leave. “After this song,” I said. Then it occurred to me that I wasn’t sure I could walk back. I was that weak.

Then I gave up. i closed my eyes and let go of any effort to relate the music in any of the ways that were familiar to me. The sound washed through me. I heard with my cells rather than with my ears, and in this let-go state, my body began to heal. I could feel the cell tides turning. I was transparent—just music and nothing else.

By the end of the Crucial Country set, I knew I had the energy to stay for Hot Rize. During the Hot Rize set, I found my feet spontaneously tapping once again.

So again, Crucial Country was a transformative experience for me. Was it the music? Was it the fact that I was willing to let the whole thing go? Or was it coincidence that I began to feel better at precisely the point when I did? I can’t say. But as a musician and lover of sound, I can’t say that the combination of tones coursing through my cells didn’t change things at some fundamental, pranic level.

Saturday and Sunday, my healing continued, slowly but steadily. Even as I write this on Tuesday, I feel the residual effects of whatever bug invaded my intestines on Friday. In yogic terms, I can feel that my annamaya kosha (physical body) is still compromised. But the residue of the beauty of Telluride, the reunions with old friends, and the transcendent power of music have nourished my pranamaya (pranic), manomaya (mental/emotional), vijnanamaya (insight and intellect) and anandamaya (bliss) koshas. I am transformed not in spite of, but because of the multilevel shake-up that illness always brings. And I am grateful for the healing power of mountains and music.

Charlotte Bell began practicing yoga in 1982 and has taught in Utah and the intermountain West since 1986. A lifelong musician, she plays oboe and English horn in the Salt Lake Symphony, Red Rock Rondo and blue haiku. She writes a regular column for Catalyst Magazine and is the author of the book Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life, published by Rodmell Press.

Natarajasana: Shiva’s Celebratory Dance
It’s June, time to kick off your shoes and shed your extra layers. The Roman poet Ovid named June after juniores, or youth, following as it does, the month of May (named for maiores, or elders). With its long hours of daylight, June celebrates the carefree fullness of summer and the plethora of outdoor festivities it brings—festivals, weddings, outdoor concerts and farmer’s markets. Kinda’ makes you want to dance.
In Indian mythology, the shape-shifting god Shiva famously assumes the form of a dancer at times. Being a god, however, Shiva is not just any dancer. He is, in fact, the literal Lord of the Dance, Nataraj, from the Sanskrit natar-rajan, or “dance king.” In this rollicking form, Shiva is often depicted encircled in flames, four arms flung in all directions, one foot crushing a small, misshapen figure that represents ignorance, while the other kicks out in enlightened joy. Shiva dances to destroy, and he destroys in order to create. In Shiva’s dance, sublimating the veil of ignorance brings about the infinite clarity of awareness.
This month’s pose, Natarajasana, celebrates Shiva’s dance, and the joy of June’s youthful exuberance. Begin by standing on a solid surface with your feet hip width apart. No mat is needed for Natarajasana. Check in with your feet. How is your weight distributed between them? Do you feel more weight on the insides or the outsides? Are your heels or balls of your feet bearing more weight than the other?
Feel how you are relating to gravity. Is your body collapsing into your feet, bringing a tired or sluggish feeling? Or are you tightening the muscles around your bones, propping yourself up away from the earth? Try the middle way, what New Zealand yoga teacher Donna Farhi calls “active yield.”
Here’s how: Standing on both feet, yield your weight into your feet. Now instead of collapsing or pushing the floor away, feed your feet into the floor, as if you are growing roots. When you practice active yield, rooting your foundation into whatever surface you’re on, you will feel a gentle rebound that lifts the rest of the body up away from the floor.
Now shift your weight onto your right leg, actively yielding into the right foot. Bend your left knee and take hold of the top of your left foot with your left hand or with a strap, holding your foot behind you. Let your tailbone descend toward the floor as you raise your right arm up toward the sky. This is the first variation of Natarajasana. In this variation, there’s no need to bend forward as in the photo; stand upright, grounding your right foot and holding your left foot with your left hand. You may want to stand with your back close to a wall and allow the toes of your left foot to touch the wall for extra stability. Stay five to ten deep breaths. Gently release your left foot and return to standing.
If you’d like to explore a more challenging variation, from the first version, begin lifting your left foot up behind you, toward your head. As you do this, let your torso begin extending forward and outward until your torso, right arm and left thigh are approximately parallel to the ground (as in the photo). Reach back through the left knee as you reach forward through the right arm, lengthening everything in between. Meanwhile, continue to root the right leg into the ground. Remember, it is Shiva’s bottom leg that stamps out ignorance, the condition necessary for spacious enlightenment, so give the grounded leg ample attention. Stay for five to ten deep breaths. Tilt the body back up to vertical, release your left foot and return to standing.
What do you feel? How has your body changed? How has your consciousness changed? Take a few natural breaths and allow the effects of the pose to settle. Close your eyes if that helps you to feel your subtle energies more clearly. Now repeat the process on your second side.
Whichever version of the pose you choose, remember that Natarajasana is about intelligent action. It is Shiva’s stationery leg that sustains his multi-limbed abandon. For one person, the most intelligent pose may be the second variation, balancing on one leg with the rest of the body in full, horizontal extension. For another, the most intelligent pose may be practicing the vertical variation, touching the wall for stability. Remember that yoga is not about what your body can or cannot do; it’s about finding the perfect balance between challenge and comfort. No two people will ever express any asana exactly the same way.
Balancing poses challenge your concentration, and therefore cultivate concentration. Balancing develops steadiness of mind and a quality of calm that can keep you clear-headed even as your life presents its inevitable daily challenges. Practice Natarajasana when your mind feels agitated or scattered, or when you need clarity for making an important decision. Or practice it when you feel like dancing—in your home practice; at the top of a mountain after a long, uphill hike; or at one of June’s many celebrations.
Charlotte Bell is a writer, musician and yoga and meditation teacher who has taught yoga along the Wasatch Front and beyond since 1986. She is the author of “Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life.” www.charlottebellyoga.com.