To My Yo-Yo, with gratitude

I’ve been in the top 1% of Yo-Yo Ma listeners worldwide on Spotify for four years in a row.

Like any good Gen Xer, I’ve long lusted for Eddie Vedder. And in my middle age, I developed a deep crush on John Mayer the very moment I heard him croon the first half of Terrapin Station with Dead & Co. But Eddie and John’s melodic sensuality are no match for the aching bend of the cello strings, and Yo-Yo Ma is the only music man I’ve claimed as mine.

Unbeknownst to Yo-Yo, the connection between us is so deep, in fact, that “My Yo-Yo” is how I’ve come to refer to this cultural icon, cellist and humanitarian.

To understand this man’s prodigal musical prowess, one needs to take in the mastery of his interpretation of Bach’s six solo suites, played in succession without breaks for nearly three hours. Yo-Yo became mine on a clear evening in 2018, when he played alone on the majestic stage of The Greek Theatre in Berkeley, CA.

As the venue filled, a single expectant, lonely chair sat on the concrete awaiting his arrival. No accompanying musicians. No opening act. No elaborate backdrop.

With the sun setting on the San Francisco Bay behind him, My Yo-Yo humbly walked across the stage. The crowd roared with a raucous but respectful applause appropriate for a classical concert, laced with palpable collective reverence and awe. Without a word, he sat down and began to play that gorgeous first refrain of Bach’s Cello Suites. And, only halfway through, about two hours in, did he get up and stretch, only to sit back down a minute later, without a word spoken and begin again.

Yo-Yo played that night for three hours straight. It was one of the most captivating performances I’ve seen in my life. The lights of the stage and the pavilion convened in a single spotlight on this unassuming genius, backlit by the Golden Gate Bridge, the Cal Campanile, the scattering of lights across Berkeley and Oakland – as if they were illuminated just for him and he was in turn illuminated just for us.

Just My Yo-Yo in his singular chair with his singular instrument and a microphone anchoring the world from spinning off its orbit.

Live music should feel like that. Like at some point in the concert the artist on stage is in conversation only with you. That they see you and you alone. But then, somehow, you are also in community with this sea of people mutually mesmerized by this moment. It is the ultimate act of being together and alone all at once.

In the years since, My Yo-Yo’s grounding impact on me has become so hardwired that my reaction to his music is pavlovian. Since acquiring Alexa in my bedroom, every night I cap the day by saying “Alexa, goodnight” and with that she turns off the lights and My Yo-Yo begins his heart-stirring rendition of Bach’s suites. And I’m out cold in five minutes tops.

My Yo-Yo is my sleep doula.

When I reluctantly tried acupuncture to address some stubborn numbness in my hands, I was petrified. But My Yo-Yo came with me. Laura, my acupuncturist and now all-around wellness guru, assured me I could play my own music to help calm my anxiety. Sure enough, eye pillow on, deep meditative breathing, pressed play and boom – asleep.

On long flights crossing multiple time zones, where sleep is hard fought and critical, My Yo-Yo is there for me. I ritually cover myself in my blanket, scarf and eye mask, pop in my AirPods, and press play. Even stuffed into the squishiest of economy class middle seats, I’m out.

In fact, upon boarding a flight from Toronto to Casablanca, I took my sleep aids, cozied up, summoned My Yo-Yo and woke up four hours later to my beautiful man telling me it was time to get off the plane. Elated, I thought I’d slept the full flight – only to find out that we never left the ground.

My Yo-Yo lured me into such a deep slumber that I missed the entire drama of will-we-or-won’t we-take-off?, the claustrophobia of being trap