Lessons from a singing bowl
I bought myself a Tibetan singing bowl a few weeks ago. I’ve wanted one for a long time and it was cemented when I participated in a Zoom series early on in this quarantine that started each session with the gentle ringing of a bowl. The sound was so meditative. The tone so calming. The vibration so inviting.
But how to find a singing bowl in a pandemic? It doesn’t really seem the sort of thing one should buy from Amazon, though surely I could have. So I found a shop that sold them in town and when I was certain there were no more than three customers, I went inside, #doublemasked, of course.
It was a beautiful, new-age-y store filled with dim lights, paper star lanterns, Tibetan peace flags, deck after deck of angel cards, bubbling water features with floating lotus flowers, crystals, candles and, as you would expect, sticks of burning incense. Can you picture it?
The saleswoman led me to a table next to the register where 15-20 bowls sat, shining gold, silver and bronze, begging to be played. Now normally, I’d be the last person to pick one of these up in a shop. Or if I did, I’d ding it once, and then immediately feel my heart race as I reached quickly to dim the noise with my hand, looking around to see if I’d bothered anyone.
This time, I took a deep breath and asked, "do you mind if I try them?"
"Not at all," she said.
"I’m afraid I don’t know how, would you mind showing me?"
"Of course," she said, and proceeded to explain how to achieve the tonal vibration by applying pressure as I circled the bowl with the wooden mallet.
For the next twenty minutes, I gonged and bonged my way around each one. Lifting to examine every bowl’s design, shape and sound until I settled on the bowl that felt juuuuuuust right. The Goldilocks of singing bowls.
It was awkward, and loud, and mildly uncomfortable - but I forced myself to do it.
And on my walk home, bowl in hand, I reflected on this idea of making noise and taking up space. Why should it feel awkward and mildly uncomfortable? Why is it often our instinct to apologize for bothering others while we test out our sound, find our voices? Why is taking up space so scary?
I have thoughts on why this might be (looking at you patriarchy, gender roles, childhood narratives, etc.).
But more interesting for me than all that is reflecting on how good I felt on the walk home. And not just because I was carrying a new treat for myself (when treats are few and far between these days). Mostly I felt good because I’d just experienced the life lesson I keep willing myself to learn, but somehow keep putting off because it just feels so darn vulnerable.
You know the one.
About feeling the fear and doing it anyway. Not worrying about the outcome. Or what others think. Or whether we might fail. Or whether we’re ready. Or whether we look like fools.
I know I’m not alone here.
It’s a tiny example, I know. Minuscule, in fact. But somehow it spoke to me that day, or rather, sung to me. So I thought I’d share it. Maybe it sings to you too? Maybe there’s something in your life you’ve been hesitating on jumping into for fear of not getting it quite right, or making too much noise, or taking up too much space?
Just a friendly little email to encourage you to jump in and try out your bowls - otherwise, how will they speak to you? And what lesson might you miss if you don’t?
I’d love to hear about what you’re trying that’s new and exciting (and also messy and scary!)
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