The first note into “Journey in Satchidananda” was low and felt familiar. Then she stretched the portal further with loops, inviting us into the cyclic nature of existence. If you ask me, it all felt like a distraction—like a mother spoon-feeding her baby pre-chewed vegetables with an airplane. We all waited until the last resonating vibration and clapped because we were indeed full.

“In that moment, I understood—my grandma was my first teacher. My introduction to old-school hoodoo. The kind rooted in the Baptist Church and the Christian Religion. The kind who mopped the carpet from back to front. Who scrubbed couch cushions every Sunday. Who spent 90% of her time in the prayer closet, rebuking the unseen, hanging photos of her mama and her mama’s mama over her bed. She had prophetic dreams”