I'll never forget the moment the tiny Nepalese witchy-woman wound the swede wrapped mallet around her. The way the vibration enveloped my whole head, a strange disorientating sensation that seemed to have a altogether different origin. Some exotic heavy sound that possessed a weighty mass not unlike a heavy woollen blanket.
I was reminded of being tucked into bed at my grandmothers house, the satisfying poundage of lavender scented layers as she pulled them up to my small chin. Way too hot and heavy considering the mild night, but magical all the same. Safe and secure.
I bought the bowl, paid too much, quite happily.
Yesterday my son was tender. Sore and sorry in that way that young men can be. A general malaise that doesn't form words and sits on his shoulders, resulting in a uncharacteristic darkness- the weight of the world.
I thought of my bowl and it's gentle mass of music.
He started too fast. To eager to get it done. I held his hand, correcting the angle and urging him to slow down. I watched his face as the vibration built and the sound lifted into her song. The look on his face was a beautiful combination of surprise and joy. Healing sound. He sat with her for ten minutes, until his hand grew tired of her heaviness.
He walked away transformed. He came and found me in the kitchen, big grin and a cuddle. Look at that! Transformed.
It made me think about how we could take our troubles and put them in a bowl. Mix them around and turn them into something else. Alchemy in the suburbs. What if it was possible?
Just throw in your shame and shit, couple of turns and wait for blissful swathe of trouble-no-more. A thorough energetic scrub down that turned your frown upside down and cleared the crap from your life. A bit like instant yoga, an easy ride to Ananda.
A little magic and lazy mysticism that asks little and gives loads- a whole bowl full of goodness.