What's in a name?

My name is Nam Hari Kaur. It’s a Sikh name. It means “princess of creativity and kindness who meditates on the sound current of the universe.” As a Kundalini yoga teacher, I had the opportunity to receive a name in Gurmukhi, the Sikh’s sacred language. My name arrived in the mail in the final days of my first year in college, just before I flew home for the summer holidays. I opened it carefully like a Christmas package.

When I saw my name, my heart sank. Nam Hari Kaur. Another N name, I thought, how can that be?! Why not an S name, like the famous musician Snatam Kaur? And how was its meaning relevant to me? I was a dancer and an academic. Why had I been given a name about meditation with sound and music?

There it was on the page in front of me. Nam Hari Kaur. I couldn’t get another name, this was the one that had been given to me.  Oh well. 

That summer, I struggled with my spiritual and personal identity. While taking summer classes at Yale, I didn’t use my new name, but I did try to wear my little white turban as often as possible, to connect me to my spiritual self. As the hot weeks of summer dragged on, self-consciousness began to take its toll. Before my flight back to California, I took off my turban and changed back into my normal clothes. I started sophomore year looking like everyone else.

This weekend I took another look at my name and my spiritual identity. I was invited to travel to Cordoba for work. It was a wonderful opportunity to share on a larger scale. I was glad to accept the invitation. I knew the itinerary I had set up would be grueling: a 3 hour Kundalini yoga class in the afternoon followed immediately by a flute and harp concert that evening. The next day, I would do 6 private sessions. Each session would unfold organically. It might turn out to be a sound healing session, a coaching session or, for those with physical pain, a cranio-sacral session. I would end the visit with an early morning yoga class the next day, before taking a bus home.

I ironed my white Indian clothes and prepared the material for a turban. It would be my first time to wear one in many years. 

One of the organizers had made three beautiful posters. 

I was sure they were recruiting mostly through word of mouth, but I relished the posters anyway; it was special to see so many of my passions all on one poster and happening all in one weekend.  

Fifteen yogis participated in my 3 hour yoga class. I called it the yoga marathon. 

We launched with an active series that included jumping for nearly 30 minutes. We closed with a moving meditation accompanied by the harp: "Sa Re Sa Sa," the Antar Naad meditation. This meditation prepares you to receive the full effects of any other sacred sound or meditation. It was perfect preparation for the evening ahead.

There wasn’t much time to transition between the class and the concert. Calling it a “concert” was a bit of a misnomer. My offering was more of an interactive sound meditation evening. I guess I hadn’t communicated that very well to my co-organizers. They had rented a space in an active restaurant. I was ready to be flexible, because that is the best way to deal with things when you are in another country. Still, I wasn’t sure what it would be like to have half the audience meditating, and the other half polishing off a meal. I helped the servers to move the tables and rearrange the chairs in a circle. I wasn’t quick enough to keep some of my participants from settling into a table and starting their dinner, ready to “listen” to the concert.

As I set up my area in the front I wondered, would people be able to hear me? Would anyone want to close their eyes and meditate in the middle of a restaurant? The evening I had prepared was ... the one I had prepared. No going back now.

Looking out at my audience, I had to smile. They had come to relax, enjoy and bathe in sound. It was going to be a wonderful night. How could it be otherwise?

First, my audience participated by creating a circle of authentic sound, using a beautiful sound healing form I learned from its founder, Nina Umai Spiro, called Pravada. Then, silence. Each person soaking up the power, calm and healing of their own sound.

Next, I invited the audience to close their eyes and receive sound. Long notes from the ocarina began a journey inward. A journey of sound. 

Then, I turned to my harp. No matter what notes I played, the harp resonated at a higher vibration. There is lightness in the sound. I played until I felt the sweet chords land with the group.

Putting down my harp, I lifted my flute and I started to play. Suddenly a rude sound pulled the flute from my lips. Loud music was blasting in from the street. Was it possible? Yes, it was - karaoke night next door.

All the servers had stopped their serving to listen to my music. They stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the restaurant. I used my hands to signal a plea that they close the door to the street. Maybe because they were also enjoying the concert, they obliged. Thank goodness! Muffled sounds, so much better than before. 

I closed the evening with a healing meditation “Ra Ma Da Sa” that everyone sang along to. With the harp and all the human voices, I felt so blessed to be a part of this circle of healing. 

When I took up the harp three years ago and the flute shortly after, I had no thoughts of someday using them to send sacred sound to others, to support their connection with themselves. As I played, it clicked. Nam Hari Kaur - a person of creativity and kindness who meditates on the sound current of the universe. 

Tonight I was the nam - that universal sound current that can be accessed so easily when we seek it. Listening for the sacred sounds that wanted to come through me, I was vibrating cosmic sound.