Unlikely Collaborators

Herbie Hancock and My Introduction to Meditation

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I was milling among the crowd at a recent event for Wisdom Ventures. The affair took place at a beautiful venue called Unlikely Collaborators – a space designed to foster conversation across divides.

The first lecturer took the dais, and attendees scrambled to their seats. I lingered too long and had to find refuge on a couch at the edge of the room. As the oratory began, a few stragglers rambled in.

One of the latecomers headed toward a chair near me. But from that vantage, he wouldn’t have been able to see the stage, so I beckoned him towards me, patting the couch next to me to provide him a seat with a better view. I sidled over and he plopped down.

I looked over at my new neighbor to smile and noticed it was the great jazz pianist, Herbie Hancock. At least, I thought it was. I couldn’t be totally sure, and given how close he was, doing a double-take would have been rude.

Herbie played a monumental role in my musical upbringing. My brother and I must have jammed to Chameleon a hundred thousand times. We wore out the vinyl grooves of his albums Thrust, Maiden Voyage, Man-Child, and others.

I stole a look at his hands – his wise old fingers splayed across his pant leg. It must be him. Should I tell him the story? I don’t know. I prevaricated. He gets enough people vying for his attention. I’ll skip it. I tried to return my attention to the plenary, Van Jones.

CBS Television, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The talk ended and, in a moment of spontaneous courage, I turned to him.

“How you doing?” I queried.

“I’m good.” He replied.

“Can I tell you a short story?” I asked.

“You can tell me a short story.” He emphasized short with good-nature.

“Well, twenty years ago, I was at a venue in New York City called Carnegie Hall. Do you know it?” I asked, playing a little dumb.

“Oh yeah, I know it.” He rejoined.

“I was working with a young singer and loitering backstage when a piano player asked me to follow him. He took me through the green room and into a smaller internal chamber barely bigger than a closet. He sat down and opened a tattered old book. It looked like a book of scripture. I couldn’t make out the words as they appeared to be in some ancient language, perhaps Sanskrit or Pali. And then he started to chant.”

Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō. Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō. Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō.

As I relayed the story, Herbie reached into a fanny pack and produced a small book.

“Did it look anything like this book?” He asked me.

“Indeed, it looked quite a lot like that book,” I responded and returned to my story.

“His deep, resonant voice made the entire room vibrate. I joined in. We chanted like this, repeating this mantra for maybe 10 minutes. Linear time was hard to track. When he finished, he calmly got up, walked out of the room, and took the stage. He killed the performance.”

“The next morning, I got up and chanted Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō. And the morning after that, I did it again. And the next morning, I did it. And even the following morning. And this very morning, twenty years later, I chanted Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō. When my girls were young, I taught them the mantra, and we would chant in the car driving to school.”

“That’s fantastic,” he interjected.

“Yes, twenty years ago, I was introduced to meditation at Carnegie Hall.” I looked Herbie right in the eye. “And that piano player was YOU.” I pointed gently toward his heart.

Herbie’s face went electric with shock. His eyes went misty. It was as if this great, celebrated man had never received a compliment in his life.

Herbie has won every accolade under the musical sun. 14 Grammy awards. He played with Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Yet, there was nothing more important that anyone could have said to him.

“I could have sat there!” he exclaimed pointed to a chair, “but I sat here, next to you. It was meant to be.”

Herbie and I launched into an animated conversation about Buddhism and meditation. Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō is a sacred mantra in Nichiren Buddhism. It is the central devotional practice in this tradition, chanted as a declaration of faith and a path to awakening one’s highest potential.

As we spoke, Schuyler drifted across the room towards us. She reached out her hand to introduce herself, “I’m Schuyler.”

“I’m Herbie.”

“Nice to meet you, Herman.” Schuyler didn’t recognize him.

“Herbie.” He repeated, winking at me.

It didn’t matter. In this moment, he wasn’t Herbie Hancock, the famous pianist.

We were bound by something more profound and intimate, a shared spiritual practice.

We were unlikely collaborators.

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