At the Sound Bath

Relax! Nobody Will Steal Your Stuff.

I went to a sound bath the other night. Maybe a hundred of us, we all laid on the floor in the art museum. People were on yoga mats and blankets, using pillows and bunched coats. We pushed aside our bags, our purses, our phones. We took off our shoes, and slid on the elastic of black, faux-satin eye masks.

So trusting, right?

Perhaps five musicians were on stage.

When the music began, it was with the sound of a deep, menacing yet beautiful gong. Tibetan bowls, a wind instrument, vocalization—it was a luxury to be in that space, one large room in Portland, Oregon, so near the Pacific, surrounded by forests—some burning, all of them fragile and vital—in the United States, on this planet spinning in space, in a violent and horrifying world: a quiet oasis of art and sensations.

In the darkness, every note was visual. The synesthesia was amazing. No kidding—I saw each sound precisely, in the theater of my quieted mind.

Maybe the event lasted an hour. I would’ve welcomed much longer.

We’d all be better, as a species, as a force toward the future, if we had a wealth of public spaces to lay on the floor, to feel the sound of notes, to see audio, to be together without threat. Why is this so rare?

We could have public sound baths. More of this. I’m all for it.

I’d go back, immediately.

Cheers,

M