Music as the Carrier Wave of a New Earth

The International Garden of Peace at Meditation Mount in Ojai, California sits high above the valley floor, a vantage point that holds both loss and aspiration. It was here, in the hollow left by the Thomas Fire four years earlier, that a vision took shape: the scorched earth itself could become a sound bowl, an amphitheater where community could gather to "sing together and just join in this joyful dance of bringing in a new world as the old one falls away." On November 20th, 2021, that vision materialized as Isaac and Torold Koren—the Brothers Koren—arrived to perform, their voices and instruments understood not as entertainment but as what one host called "the carrier wave of the renaissance."

The premise underpinning the event, called "Muses on the Mount," invokes a lineage older than contemporary music: the idea that inspiration arrives from beyond the human ego. Robert Schumann, the host notes, was "absolutely clear that I was given this melody by the angels; I'm just here to transpose it." In this framework, the artist is less a creator than a conduit—a vessel through which something larger seeks expression. The Brothers Koren embrace this responsibility fully. They open with a song called "Thankful," its lyrics circling a central question: "How have we come to this when all I've ever seen is you?" The melody turns that inquiry inward, asking listeners not to admire performance but to recognize themselves as part of an unfinished answer.

Everyone Has a Voice the Universe Is Waiting to Hear

Central to the Brothers Koren's philosophy is a democratization of voice that runs counter to the professionalized spectacle of modern music. "We believe everyone has a voice that the world, the universe is waiting to hear," Isaac tells the gathered crowd, "and no one else sounds like you." The statement isn't motivational sentiment; it emerges from lived experience. Having spent careers in what they describe as "being those listened to, being those that people came to watch," their mission has shifted. Now their work is to "gather with all of you voices—with all of these instruments that you are, whether you've ever called yourself a voice or a singer or not."

This reframing of the human being as an instrument is not metaphorical. It shapes every moment of the gathering. When the Brothers Koren invite the audience to sing a simple melody—"when everything's changing, I wanna stay close"—they acknowledge the vulnerability such an invitation carries. "The person sitting next to you is more afraid than you of singing and wondering what you think of their voice," Torold says gently. "So don't even worry about it. Don't even get tangled up in that. Let's just sing together." The song swells, and something shifts: "Now we are one instrument there. There's more of that to come."

What Happens Now: Ritual and Remembrance

Two years before this November gathering, the Brothers Koren held a memorial at the same location for Isaac's son, Jack, who had passed away. Jack's ashes rest beneath a tall tree by the pond, marked by green supports—a living memorial in the same landscape that holds Meditation Mount's vision for renewal. It is from that crossroads, from the raw territory of grief, that a song titled "What Happens Now" emerged. The song doesn't offer comfort or resolution; instead, it asks the fundamental question that loss demands: "The edge is torn. The color's gone. I must move on. The courage now I call to rise above this wall."

When the Brothers Koren returned to sing "What Happens Now" in that same space, the gesture became more than performance. It became ritual—a return to the site of transformation, a way of honoring both what was lost and what continues. The song's narrative arc traces the underside of change: "Walking down the carpet streets / A city like shine bright / Let's plant the seeds tonight." There is no denial of darkness here, no spiritual bypass. Instead, there is the acknowledgment that "we don't choose what occurs for us; we choose how we show up for it, into it."

The Practice of Receptive Listening

As the sun begins to lower over the valley, the Brothers Koren guide the audience through a listening exercise that reorients attention itself. "So much of the voice is in listening," one notes. They invite people to extend their awareness to the ridges in the distance, to bring listening "all the way to the edge of your skin so that your hairs are standing on tippy toes." This is not passive consumption of sound. It is an active, embodied practice—one that requires participants to become as much instrument as the singers themselves.

The song "Everything's Changing" exemplifies this philosophy in action. Written during a time when the ground felt unstable—literally and figuratively—it moves through images of collapse and resilience: "When the ground is shaking, nothing is that fast. It's like you couldn't rely on love to keep you falling that fast." The repetition of "when everything's changing, I wanna stay close" becomes both anchor and prayer, a way of holding presence in the face of constant transformation. By inviting the audience to sing this refrain, the Brothers Koren transform a personal or collective anxiety into an act of communion.

Art as Remembrance and Seed-Planting

The gathering at Meditation Mount operates on multiple registers simultaneously. It is memorial, performance, teaching, and invitation. The Brothers Koren have spent years writing for other artists and exploring the space where music meets consciousness work. At its heart, their work rests on a radical belief: that the act of singing together—of allowing one's voice to join others in resonance—is itself a form of healing and co-creation. The vision articulated by the host, that the Thomas Fire's scar could be transmuted into a sound bowl, mirrors the larger work that grief and art accomplish together: the transformation of devastation into a gathering place.

In inviting the audience to sing, to listen with their whole bodies, to remember what was lost while planting seeds for what might come, the Brothers Koren enact a philosophy of voice that belongs neither to celebrity nor to the isolated self. Instead, voice becomes what it always was in older traditions: a technology of collective being, a way that humans synchronize with one another and with forces larger than any individual will. The song "Everything's Changing" names the condition of our time. The Brothers Koren's work suggests that what changes us is not silence or isolation, but the courage to stay close, to sing, and to listen together.

Where to go from here

To deepen this work in your own practice, begin with listening—not as background, but as an active, embodied skill. Try the exercise the Brothers Koren led: extend your awareness to the far edges of a space, then gradually draw it inward to the perimeter of your own skin. Notice what happens to your nervous system, your sense of aliveness. When you encounter change—loss, transition, uncertainty—ask yourself: "What happens now?" and "How do I show up?" rather than hoping for stability. If you sing, sing with others; if you don't, consider joining a community choir, a kirtan circle, or any gathering where the human voice becomes a shared instrument. The Brothers Koren's insight—that everyone has a voice the universe is waiting to hear—is not flattery. It is an ontological claim about what voice actually is: not a measure of technical skill, but a frequency through which being itself resonates.