everything is waiting for you

a week with kesha in big sur

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The End.

Over the last few months, I’ve been hosting weekly open mics at my apartment – I call this group The Caterpillars. The premise was that we’d come together and become butterflies through sharing art in a connected collective. I’d start these events off with sound baths and guided meditations—bringing people into a world where, by taking the first risk, hopefully I could create a space of safety and honesty. And they showed up for themselves, sharing things they hadn’t even accepted internally; everyone offered themselves up for witness in such powerful ways, and it was an honor to facilitate in the same way I had been held by various teachers and mentors.

But by the end of it, I was overwhelmed.

After I kicked off the event, I’d find myself shirking away
from wanting to be around large groups of people.

And when I was by myself
I didn’t know how to act or how to feel either
because I’d spent so much time with others.

So I began, in perpetuity, to fill my time with people
so that I wouldn’t have to think about anything.

Anything but the chaos inside me.

I had held so much space for everyone around me
and misplaced the space reserved for myself.

So when the quarter ended
I had a couple of weeks to recharge
before my internship began.

And I knew exactly what I needed to do:

It was time to go back to Esalen.

Now, Esalen—for those of you who don’t know—is heaven on earth. It was founded by two Stanford alums in the ‘60s and quickly became the center of the counterculture revolution and a space where people can come together and get to know each other in the context of reinvention. It is fertile ground for a collective shared experience in which guests come with the intention to work on themselves and rewrite their relationship with each other.

I spent a month there last summer, doing a workshop on connection and belonging with the legendary Steven Harper. That experience changed my life. And the last few months of reintegrating have been… well, rough.

Leaving Esalen felt like returning to dystopia.
And this Brave New World was not what I wanted in my life.

And so I decided it was time to go back.

I signed up for a day or two of volunteering, where you can go for free, and asked a friend to give me a guest pass for another day or two. Just like that, I’d stacked up about four days of paradise for a price my Indian parents loved.

I just had to figure out where to sleep.

That’s when I found out—Kesha was hosting a songwriting workshop at Esalen that week. Yes. That Kesha. The queen of nostalgia was leading a bootcamp called “The Alchemy of Pop”–a songwriting bootcamp structured around finding truth in written phrases and providing melody to that truth. She was facilitating alongside Hrishi, a South Asian Carnatic singer I’d been following on Instagram who fused Indian classical music with Western melody.

I started to wonder—should I just sign up?

I’d already gotten to stay at Esalen for a month last summer on a very generous scholarship. And here was a chance to work with one of the biggest stars of our generation… but it cost money.

I flipped.
Flopped.

Thought about the money.
Thought about whether I deserved this or not.
Thought as I drove to my friend Jack’s house.
Thought as I spent the day on Jack’s couch.
Thought a wittle bit mo–

Okay, you get the point.

And I came to a decision.

DRUMROLL PLEASE!

pause for dramatic effect

I said no.

Because you know what’s better than a week in Big Sur?
A free week in Big Sur!

So I left Jack’s, drove through the night to Monterey
and checked into a $50 motel with a “non-smoking” room
that smelled improperly labeled.

I barely slept.
But I survived.

The next morning, I drove my way back to Esalen.
And slowly, I was brought back to life.

The coastline, the mountains, the familiar Big Sur air that I had gotten to know so well from my time last summer—it was all coming back.

I started to feel really excited.

Walking back into the Esalen landscape felt like coming home in a way my body instantly remembered. I walked through the garden. I passed by nooks where I made friends, had late-night dances, and took naps under the sun.

I recognized these places.

Places where I’d woken up again,
places I’d written my heart out,
and places where I got to start over.

This place was home.

This opportunity—this hope—gave me a wordless sense of calm.

But I’ll be honest, I couldn’t fully tell how I felt.

I couldn’t comprehend that I was back in this place I’d developed such a mythos about. A place that, once I left, I couldn’t even begin to explain to my friends—the experience was too ineffable to concretize.

It felt overwhelming.

It felt like a fever dream.

It felt as if I had landed on another planet.
Like an astronaut on Mars.
Or maybe—more accurately—a human visiting Eden.

Providence was what it was.
And it was hard for a mortal like me to feel.

As I volunteered in the garden
reconnected with friends
and tried to be gentle with myself
my body slowly, once again
synced up with the rhythm of the land.

At lunch, I ran into Jahanzeb—an old friend from my last visit.
He was helping assist with the workshop.

“Hey Ariv,” he said, “meet Kesha.”

I said hey.

And there she was.

She was a person. I was a person. And we had lunch.

kesha (left), ariv (right), my debut book (center)!

I grew up making people happy.
The one-hyphenated-word synonym of this sentence
is called people-pleasing.

My rationale was always this: it comes at a very small cost to me
to tweak my personality and phrasing to cater to another’s experience
so why not do it if it makes the world a better place?

As I’d later find out, this desire to cater to everyone’s experience
can begin to weigh down on a person. But this week, I wasn’t that guy.

Since I'd been facilitating workshops and events
I came into Esalen overflowing with new people to hang out with.

I felt like I had more than enough people in my life
who loved and cared for me than ever.

So I hung out with her like I had nothing to prove.
And not needing anything from her made it easy to be her friend.

Later, I went to the first session of the bootcamp
and we started with a guided meditation.

After, Kesha asked us to word vomit on a piece of paper.

So I started writing, and writing, and writing
encircling words and phrases that felt true
sentences that had voices of their own.

Then we got into groups and fleshed them out.

She asked us if we wanted to share anything with the group
but I felt so vulnerable that for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to share. My coping mechanism was telling myself I’d grown up always wanting to share
so this time, I decided not to. I just sat there in silence.

I knew I needed to. But I didn’t.

And then when we went into a smaller group, I shared with my group members—who I’d never met before—that I felt too vulnerable to share.

And they built me back up.
They witnessed my art and told me how much they enjoyed it.

Just before the workshop was gonna end, I shared it with Kesha.
And she really liked it.

All of a sudden, I realized I needed to stop self-filtering
before my words even reached the paper.

I needed to stop blowing out my little truth candle
before it had the chance to glow.

I needed to start saying what’s on my mind
and let it be held and witnessed.

If I couldn’t be honest with myself
how could I be honest with anyone else?

I had built so much of my core character
on being a competent authentarian
I had forgotten there were levels of honesty
that I hadn’t even begun to tread towards.

And it starts now.

---

Later that evening
Hrishi performed Carnatic music
and I was blown away.

I mean, shoutout @hrishisongs!

It was probably some of the best live music I’d ever witnessed.
And I had a front-row seat.

But I couldn’t stop thinking during his performance
about the difference between him in his chair performing to me
and me sitting in my chair witnessing him.

After going to Esalen, I realized that if I could do anything
it would be to facilitate a workshop like this.

And watching him play—it’s not that it made me jealous.
(let’s be honest, it did)

But it made me think about what I might’ve been able to do
had I worked a bit harder. Because he was 26 and I was 20.
And I desperately wanted to create the space he did.

I was so close, yet so far away.

I thought a lot about this during the weekend and after I left.
My generation calls this experience mogging.
Def: “When somebody unintentionally makes another person feel useless.”

I’ve been afflicted by this feeling all my life.
Let me give you some context.

Growing up in the Bay Area, most people ask you "What do you do?"

And I hate this question.
Because I just—I live.

I don’t have an elaborate explanation for what I spend my days doing
because I tend to live life moment by moment–and although it has its pros and cons, this lifestyle tends to cater itself poorly to self-description.

Long story short, I got over myself pretty quickly
because at Esalen, it doesn’t matter what you do
and it doesn’t matter what you’ve done
in fact, nobody asks—and you don’t need to tell anyone.

And what was more important was the realization
that I didn’t have to sit in his chair
to shine the light I so deeply wanted to share
on the world stage
and my inadequacies didn’t have to be a weight to bear
rather an opening for more inquiry.

Sounds like I had some work to do
before I could run my own workshop!

---

On the second day, I decided to show up
and I shared some of my grievances
in regard to love and connection
and IS SOMEONE EVER GOING TO LOVE ME
with the entire group.

They reminded me that my fear of not knowing
did not have to be a lonely burden to carry.

And all of a sudden, the magic began to flow.

Later, I found myself in a group with the only other young people in the workshop. We found each other by chance, and what followed was an adventure I’ll remember for the rest of my life!

Together, we combined our reflections and wrote a song called “Like I Do.”

I had always wanted to be a songwriter.
But I never felt fully comfortable with my voice.

Acting? Public speaking? Sure. Give me a stage, and I’ll light it up.

But singing?
That felt like taking my clothes off in the middle of a crowded street.
That was something I never felt good enough to be confident doing.

On that day, people complimented my voice.

Not just the writing. My voice.

And something shifted.

The faucet turned on
and the art began to flow.

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On the third day of the workshop
we had an open mic where everyone shared the songs they wrote.

I performed three—one solo, and two group pieces.

And I had the time of my life.

Everyone took risks that day
so many who came in not calling themselves songwriters had found a voice
and even if they weren’t on key or fully confident—they spoke their truth.

And they spoke with honesty
and taught me the meaning of authenticity.

It was a beautiful moment to be a part of.

At the end of the show, as we wrapped up and started exchanging compliments and approbation, one of my new friends walked up to me.

He hugged me and said:

“Protect your heart. Hold on to your light.”

At that moment, I didn’t need to be useful.

Didn’t need to impress.

Didn’t need to explain who I was
or why I was worth knowing.

I just needed to be there.

And I was seen for that.

Thank you Otto
for giving me exactly
what I didn’t know
I needed so badly.

Witness.

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On the final day,
I wanted to do everything I hadn’t done.

I hadn’t been back to Esalen in months
and I wanted to canvas every crevasse
and do everything I could before my departure.

So, in an effort to tear myself away
from the Silicon Valley normative
I did the exact opposite:
I laid down in a hammock and did nothing.

For two hours.

After all…

the most un-optimal decision
is the most optimal

Later that day, as I pondered reintegration
I thought about how easy it was to fear the future.

How could I build a loving relationship with what’s coming
rather than one sculpted out of dread?

And I remembered something Hrishi had mentioned earlier:

“I like to think—what advice would I tell myself when I get through this?”

And this line came to me:

And at that moment I knew
I’d make it through
the hazy uncertainty of today
into tomorrow.

At that moment I was embraced
in a cocoon of warmth and safety
freed by the certainty of this phrase
yes, everything was waiting for me.

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There are people in the world who love you
and want to hear what you have to say.
You may not feel that everywhere
and that’s okay.

So go find the places where you are respected.
Where you are heard.

You don’t need to convince everyone to love you.
You just need to find the spaces where love is already waiting for you.

That’s what I want to build.
That’s what I want to bring to the world.

So if you’re in the Bay over the next few months—reach out.

We can create those spaces.

Not everyone can make it out to Big Sur.
But everyone deserves to feel this way.

After all, everything is waiting for you.

To all my friends, new and old
thank you for once again reminding me
that everything I’ve been searching for
has always been inside of me.

It’s an honor to share this life with you.

❤️

The Beginning.