We Went to a Sound Bath (and It Was Totally Lame)
I don’t identify myself as a “bohemian type,” that dirty word denoting free-flowing ideals with the world’s most regimented eating plans. While I respect vegabs, I do not sympathize with them. I look to yoga as a fitness last resort since it consistently feels like a church service I’m thrown into against my will. The closest I come to meditating is when my non-English-speaking hairdresser trims my bangs, and I can feel her many rings trace my forehead and for a moment I forget how alarmingly short she’s cutting my hair, and I am at peace.
Living adjacent to Los Angeles’s Silver Lake neighborhood, you face-off against some dream-catchers, a.k.a. men and women who claim the world’s defeat will be at the hand of misaligned chakras. I’ve never been one to be swayed by their passion, but I found myself curious. It’s the same curiosity that makes a Los Angelino take pause before the grandiosity of the Church of Scientology Museum Tour. This past week I followed that desire for peeking over “the spiritual fence” so to speak, and took part in a “sound bath.”
Yep, a “sound bath.” The name alone baffles people with its ambiguity. Who could possibly attempt to define it without having experienced it first themselves? I imagined a vacuous room with several people laying down, experiencing sound waves that feel like Mother Nature orgasming through your eardrums.