Space Between the Stars (37 page)

Carlos and I talked about what we would say if one of our children came home wearing shorn hair, a sari, or a ring with a guru's face on it. We knew we could not stand mute and allow them to follow blindly. Carlos and I had sought meditation to bring our lives into balance, but because Sri Chinmoy had tried to control our lives and spiritual growth, we wanted to make sure our children understood the difference between listening to their own souls and an outside teacher. We meditated with Salvador, Stella, and Angelica, and I told them, “You house the truth of God's essence inside yourselves, to be heard in the whisper of silence. All that a guru can offer your soul is a guidebook to the trail of enlightenment. All teachers are imperfect, as each human is. The same desires, judgments, competitive nature, and ego reside in him or her. At times you may feel divinity's presence, especially when meditating, but remain aware that it is the effort of your own soul that calls this light to you. Only the invisible, omnipotent Spirit of God can bestow grace and wisdom. A guru may lead you astray. Follow your own connection to divinity.”

Carlos told the children that they were born with the same
light-wisdom of Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and Allah. They have the same capacity to look at life and make conscious decisions to benefit people, the planet, and themselves. “It is important to question authority,” he said.

My writing classes became a time I savored just for me, and I craved to deepen my experience. An advertisement in
Poets & Writers
magazine—for a one-week writing workshop in New Mexico with Natalie Goldberg—caught my eye. I had read her book
Writing Down the Bones
, which promised to “free the writer within,” and I had begun her system of writing practice, scaring myself with what came out when I put my pen to paper and let go of my controlling mind and conscience. I loved Natalie's writing and related to her because she had a spiritual teacher, Katagiri Roshi, with whom she studied meditation and life. I signed up for the course with Lynn, my confidante and writer-friend since Los Angeles. After all, we had begun our journey writing poetry together.

The workshop was called “Fast Writing, Slow Walking” and took place at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, a historic artist colony in Taos. Lynn and I arrived at nightfall, snow glistening on the ground, and the branches of bare cottonwoods sticking akimbo from shimmering trunks. Sixty-five writers were gathered in the dining room and living room of the lodge, talking and greeting one another as they lined up to eat in the kitchen. I heard Natalie's voice before I saw her, and my heart beat a little faster. I was a little in awe, and nervous to write with someone I held in such high esteem. I had swallowed her words as though they were honey, and I knew she had writing technique
and profound philosophy of life to teach me. Anticipation pumped through me, and Lynn and I shared smiles as Natalie dismissed us to the classroom.

I clutched my notebook in my arm and followed the line of writers, snow crunching beneath our boots, to the two-story adobe building down a path. The sky was open, and stars a million years away blinked slowly. Natalie told us to count off into small groups of six. Lynn and I cheated and said the same number so we would not be separated, giggling like teenagers that we had disobeyed and not been caught. The rules of writing practice were recited by a student: (1) keep your hand moving; (2) don't cross out; (3) don't worry about spelling, punctuation, or grammar; (4) lose control; and (5) go for the jugular.

We were given topics to write about for ten minutes, following these guidelines. Then we would read our pieces out loud and no one was permitted to comment. No “Your writing is beautiful” or “I don't get what you mean.” Just read and be silent. That was the hardest part; to let another's words—her guts spilled onto a page—hang in silence. The first night, our topics were “corn on the cob, snow, knuckles, and summer.” We broke into our small groups and went to someone's bedroom, where we wrote and read until late at night. Lynn and I walked in the starlight with the glowing blue light outside the kitchen guiding us back to the main building. It was freezing cold outside, but our room, named “Placitas,” was warm, the wall heater clicking through the night.

Each day we began in the classroom with Natalie teaching about writing and telling us that we “have to keep our arms in
the fire” to be connected with a writing community, because “writers don't do it alone.” She rattled off topics, and we would break into our small groups to write and read out loud over and over. I loved the intense discipline; but after two days I began to break down, trying to think of a way out, because the writing began to “crack me open” as Nat said. And that brittle place in my chest was letting out pieces of my soul. When I wrote about “what I carry,” my eyes overflowed from years of not living my art, writing my life. Words spilled out and flowed from me effortlessly because my hand moved more quickly than my mind could control it. Natalie's example of accepting herself allowed me to accept myself—my imperfections, my past—and I felt peaceful and wild.

The Taos pueblo lay directly behind Mabel Dodge, a flat expanse of snow and ice where dogs ran in packs, their tongues hanging out and tails wagging. Out from the mesa rose Taos Mountain, sacred to Native Americans, and holding the power of generations who walked and blessed the land, traveling gently through the seasons. I absorbed the wisdom that floated from the pueblo, renewed by the scratch of pens moving across the page.

Natalie had given us a reading list, and in the large group we discussed Jamaica Kincaid's
A Small Place
and William Sty-ron's
Darkness Visible.
Writers have been notorious drinkers and sufferers of depression, she told us: “Be careful.” She read Flan-nery O'Connor out loud to us, the writing zinging through the classroom, vibrant and sharp. My skin breathed it all in, and I was filled with the lineage of writers everywhere. In the shuttle returning to Albuquerque, the Rio Grande flowed swiftly be-
side us. The writing had grounded me in the direction I wanted to travel. I felt whole. Natalie said Katagiri Roshi had told her, “Continue under all circumstances. Do not be tossed away.” Returning home, I carried this with me. As life became busier and busier, and when the children needed me but I needed to write, I tried to put a boundary around my space so that I would not throw away what I had learned at the workshop. I continued with my weekly writing group and applied my newfound freedom to what I wrote.

In business, Carlos needed to find a new record label. Touring was the band's mainstay and Carlos's great love, but people constantly asked whether he had released new records and CDs. Radio only played classic Santana hits, such as “Oye Como Va” and “Black Magic Woman,” and there were at least two decades of songs that only devout fans knew about. We needed to shop record labels to see whether there was interest in Carlos's talent.

We flew to Los Angeles to attend a tribute to Quincy Jones. When our car pulled up to the front doors of the Century Plaza Hotel, Clive Davis was standing outside. I said to Carlos, “You should be back with Clive.” He had signed the original Santana Band to Columbia Records in 1969 before it had become Sony. Clive had started his own record company, Arista, and was legendary for picking Top 40 hits for his artists. Carlos's eyes followed my voice to Clive's figure.

We left the car and enjoyed the evening celebrating Quincy's outstanding musical genius. A few months later, Island Records released Carlos from his contract, and he met with record executives to investigate working with them. Carlos's sound was rec-
ognized everywhere in the world, his unique guitar sound undisputed—but music was an industry of numbers, Top 40 hits, payola, and luck. It was not the sixties anymore.

Carlos met with Clive Davis at his bungalow in the Beverly Hills Hotel, and they talked more than two hours about musical vision and ideas for getting the band back on the radio. Clive went back to his label, and they made an offer. With tremendous excitement, the contract was signed to record with Arista. Guest artists were called in to write songs on which Carlos collaborated, and the Santana Band recorded their vivacious, rhythmic anthems. Recording took fifteen months, and during that time, Salvador, Stella, Jelli, and I watched Carlos pack and repack his suitcase while he recorded—sometimes six days a week—toured, filmed videos, and gave hundreds of interviews. Without Carlos beside me, I started Salvador's college search, wobbled precariously through Stella's first bad choice in a boyfriend, and prepared Jelli to move to a new school. I tried desperately to control Carlos's calendar, approve tours, sign every check for each employee and vendor, oversee the staff's duties, and keep our corporation efficient. As chief operations officer, I structured the way our office was run and the amount of time the band toured—trying to keep a balance between fame and reality, work and family. It wasn't easy. If I didn't say no to many requests, Carlos would never take time off. Every week of the year there seemed to be an award show or a benefit or a concert he was asked to play. I had fashioned a system that required him to take time off equal to the time he worked so that we could have a life away from Carlos Santana the guitar
player. Most of the time I stood alone against the demands, holding on to my goal to have a household with a father present.

I cannot really say that this time was more intense or hectic than other times in our lives, but in the scope of my seeking to write, a new scrutiny of time was necessary.
Could I hold the family together, manage the business, and have time to quietly write?
I awakened at 5:00 A.M. to write, or I wrote when the children were in school, or after they were asleep. My writing time was fragmented and unreliable, but I continued under all circumstances—as Katagiri Roshi had advised Natalie.

Supernatural
was released in June 1999. Santana was on the road, opening for the Dave Matthews Band when
Supernatural
's first single, “Smooth,” hit radio stations across the country. It climbed the charts and, for the first time ever, we had a number one song on the Top 40. The majority of young teens who loved the CD had never heard of Santana. Only their parents remembered “Black Magic Woman,” which had reached number four in 1970.

Wherever we went, we heard “Smooth” or “Maria Maria” playing—in restaurants, at basketball games, in cars passing by on the street. In our October goal-setting meeting I had voiced my dream of
Supernatural
reaching platinum, which would mean the sale of one million CDs in the United States. By November,
Supernatural
went platinum, and we celebrated that Santana was back on the radio.

When the Grammy nominations were announced, one of our business associates called us from L.A. “Guess how many nominations we received—two, four, six, eight, or ten?” he asked.
I was smiling because his voice was so excited. “Ten,” I said.

“How did you know?” he exclaimed.

“I didn't. You said ‘guess.’

The music had moved like a spiritual locomotive on a rail of light. It was vibrant, soulful, energetic, and new—filled with Santana's poly-rhythmic drums and passionate guitar melodies, yet with the voice of hip-hop and lyrics of young musicians on the current scene.
Supernatural
birthed a multitudinous experience that dramatically shifted Carlos's influence in the music world. Clive had taken a risk because he had believed in Car-los's talent, and he had been dedicated to the CD's success. The multilayered, artistic sounds of the band were being heard by a new generation carried along on our pilgrimage.

In February our family traveled to Los Angeles for the Grammys. The night before the award show we attended Arista's pre-Grammy party at the Beverly Hills Hotel showcasing Whitney Houston and Santana. Paparazzi swarmed the red-carpeted entrance and lobby. While Carlos strolled the press line giving short interviews, the children watched musicians and producers gathered in their glittering finery. I went upstairs to the suite Arista provided for our family—a luxurious two-bedroom, three-bath apartment—lit the gas fireplace, and explored the bedrooms, walking across marble floors and thick carpet that felt like marshmallows when I stepped out of my three-inch heels. I relaxed on a chenille chaise lounge, opened a small ten-dollar jar of cashews, and waited for Carlos's interview on
60 Minutes II.
After twenty luscious minutes of quiet,
Carlos and the children came up to the suite and lay across the king-size feather beds. Charlie Rose began rehashing the old news of Carlos being high on acid during his Woodstock performance, and I was sorry the girls were watching the interview. Salvador was sixteen and aware of his dad's past. But the girls were nine and fourteen, and I didn't want them to hear about the drugs or, later in the piece, Carlos's sexual abuse when he was a child in Mexico. Why couldn't the report focus on Carlos's spirituality, his knowledge of African rhythms and Mexican melodies, and how he had toured when the band was hot as well as when it had been forgotten by mainstream media? What about Carlos's tenacity to perform in small venues, the overnight bus rides, and how the band had sometimes stayed in hotels that didn't have hot water? My fondest memories were when Santana performed in bullrings in Madrid and San Sebastián, Spain—walking from the dressing room to the stage across a bridge of wooden planks with bulls snorting below.

During concerts, from the wings of the stage, I had watched Carlos's dark eyes peer out from his buttermilk skin beneath the spotlight circling his body. After seeing thousands of shows, I had my own ideas about what was important about Carlos, and it seldom was what the media chose to focus on. The children watched the program without comment, and when we left the suite for the party in the grand ballroom, the flash of cameras and flurry of ball gowns and stars with their entourages made us all forget what we had watched.

Whitney Houston performed for more than an hour, her voice strong and sure; each beautiful note was a thief pursuing our hearts. She sang to Clive Davis, who had groomed her from
a teen, giving her voice the hand-carved songs that catapulted her star into unreachable galaxies. Arista had been built by Clive, and now, according to industry talk, he was being pushed out of his reign.