YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #12: "REGGIE'S SINGING BOWLS"
Sometimes during classes Reggie really goes to town on his singing bowls, and other times he just sort of teases us, like a succulent appetizer early in the session to arouse our senses, or, in the end, a taste of a sumptuous dessert to reward us. Reggie is a musician and often, after class, invites us all to small concerts in the area, where he will play, and word from my yoga and tennis pal Ethan is that Reggie is an accomplished drummer who plays just about all instruments as well; hence his adroit and melodious manipulation of the singing bowls.
The stick-like instrument Reggie touches these various sized bowls with is also used by him to blow in and emit a rough woofing sound, which blends with the distant tinkle of a certain small bowl, and every bowl seems to emanate a different sound, some flute-like, some like the bells gonging the time of day in city squares, others expanding like sirens, but since we are all busy in our strenuous postures or relaxing on our backs in “total surrender,” (“it takes courage to surrender!” says Reggie) we seldom view just which bowls Reggie is touching with his magic wand, though a few times I have sneakily peaked to see him bent over his bowls like a xylophone player, and it is obvious this is a passion for him and that he's studied under the tutelage of an Indian guru.
My guess is that everybody in class must relish the singing bowls, though I'm still at a point where I'm trying to figure out yoga and all its spiritual intimations and inclinations and need to soak them all up like osmosis before I try to blend the singing bowls into my new experience with some kind of higher meaning and mental therapy and don't wish to be bombarded any more than I am by the entirety of this new process.
I once, as a cab driver years back, picked up a woman at the airport in San Luis Obispo who had returned from a place up north where she attended a retreat for “energy healing.” I asked her what energy healing was and she tried to explain it to me in layman's terms as the healing of your brain or sanity or emotions with the sound of certain musical instruments. She was attired in high-end threads and around 40 and attractive and physically fit and lived in a gated community with a country club golf course, but there was something in her eyes that told me she was not happy, and although at that time I had no notion of yoga as anything but an exercise for neurotic women and pansy men, it occurs to me now that the sounds of Reggie's singing bowls and yoga must be tied into energy healing of some sort for my peers in these classes, though none of these ladies in my class resemble this woman who attended the energy healing retreat, as she left me a skimpy tip when I dropped her off at her mini mansion and I cannot see any of these nice ladies here being anything but generous to a poor cabby scraping out a meager living.
Nor can I picture them doling out big bucks for this kind of retreat, as I had also as a cabby picked up women who attended soul coaching, soul coaxing and emotional clarity retreats, and I will honestly report that these ladies did supply me with ample tips and seemed nowhere as troubled and up-tight as the energy healing retreat woman who seemed crabby about my questioning the dynamics of energy healing.
I wonder also if this energy healing woman attended yoga classes and my guess is she probably has or does, but perhaps in a manner like those wealthy ladies in Beverly hills who attend the classes of world-renown gurus from India who own fleets of Rolls Royce's and mansions and try and seduce these desperate overly attended dolls and end up getting sued for sexual aggressiveness of a lewd manner.
I'm certainly glad nothing like this has anything in common with Reggie's wholesome and benevolent approach to yoga and his singing bowls, which I admit DO have a soothing effect after over an hour of physical torture, though some of the sounds seem to keen in on your inner ear and cause some shrieking. When Reggie stroked this huge crystal bowl the sound slowly filled the room and vibrated like an ongoing siren, and also seemed to pierce my cranium and enter my poor battered 73 year old near delirious softened up brain and bust up minute particles, and I almost came to the point of covering my ears with both hands and making a horrible face, but instead withstood the invasion, realizing my trust in Reggie's singing bowls would end up salvaging in me some kind of therapeutic benefit, though at the same time I also felt that if I was locked in a dark cell for any prolonged amount of time and Reggie continued to touch the big crystal bowl over and over again, keening in and out of my ear drums like an all enveloping shriek that cracked the walls like the breaking of the sound barrier, I would surely go insane or a least become more rattled than I naturally am, though I'm sure Reggie would never even consider locking a knucklehead like me up in a room and hit that big crystal bowl and those bowls beside it over and over and over again until I did go stark raving mad and began beating on the walls and sobbing like a terrified child...
Is this the kind of energy healing that poor country club woman had to withstand? No wonder she acted like such a snooty, irritated bitch at my inquisition.
As I recall, at around 30 years old, I was deeply disappointed in my loneliness and despair at being rejected by one woman after another, along with a feeling of failure at everything I was doing, and plunged into a vortex of melancholia that was close to overwhelming, and my only salvation and balm, besides basketball and jumping into a cold ocean, was listening on my back in the darkness to Rachmaninoff”s 2nd Piano Concerto, perhaps the saddest piece of music ever written. It worked every time and sent me in a joyous mood to the nearest bar.
Anyway, at some point, once I get to know him any better, I'll broach the question to Reggie and ask him if energy healing has anything to do with his singing bowls. Right now, though, as we rest in total and courageous surrender, I find these singing bowls ultimately restful and will do my utmost to try and understand their influence down the line.
The stick-like instrument Reggie touches these various sized bowls with is also used by him to blow in and emit a rough woofing sound, which blends with the distant tinkle of a certain small bowl, and every bowl seems to emanate a different sound, some flute-like, some like the bells gonging the time of day in city squares, others expanding like sirens, but since we are all busy in our strenuous postures or relaxing on our backs in “total surrender,” (“it takes courage to surrender!” says Reggie) we seldom view just which bowls Reggie is touching with his magic wand, though a few times I have sneakily peaked to see him bent over his bowls like a xylophone player, and it is obvious this is a passion for him and that he's studied under the tutelage of an Indian guru.
My guess is that everybody in class must relish the singing bowls, though I'm still at a point where I'm trying to figure out yoga and all its spiritual intimations and inclinations and need to soak them all up like osmosis before I try to blend the singing bowls into my new experience with some kind of higher meaning and mental therapy and don't wish to be bombarded any more than I am by the entirety of this new process.
I once, as a cab driver years back, picked up a woman at the airport in San Luis Obispo who had returned from a place up north where she attended a retreat for “energy healing.” I asked her what energy healing was and she tried to explain it to me in layman's terms as the healing of your brain or sanity or emotions with the sound of certain musical instruments. She was attired in high-end threads and around 40 and attractive and physically fit and lived in a gated community with a country club golf course, but there was something in her eyes that told me she was not happy, and although at that time I had no notion of yoga as anything but an exercise for neurotic women and pansy men, it occurs to me now that the sounds of Reggie's singing bowls and yoga must be tied into energy healing of some sort for my peers in these classes, though none of these ladies in my class resemble this woman who attended the energy healing retreat, as she left me a skimpy tip when I dropped her off at her mini mansion and I cannot see any of these nice ladies here being anything but generous to a poor cabby scraping out a meager living.
Nor can I picture them doling out big bucks for this kind of retreat, as I had also as a cabby picked up women who attended soul coaching, soul coaxing and emotional clarity retreats, and I will honestly report that these ladies did supply me with ample tips and seemed nowhere as troubled and up-tight as the energy healing retreat woman who seemed crabby about my questioning the dynamics of energy healing.
I wonder also if this energy healing woman attended yoga classes and my guess is she probably has or does, but perhaps in a manner like those wealthy ladies in Beverly hills who attend the classes of world-renown gurus from India who own fleets of Rolls Royce's and mansions and try and seduce these desperate overly attended dolls and end up getting sued for sexual aggressiveness of a lewd manner.
I'm certainly glad nothing like this has anything in common with Reggie's wholesome and benevolent approach to yoga and his singing bowls, which I admit DO have a soothing effect after over an hour of physical torture, though some of the sounds seem to keen in on your inner ear and cause some shrieking. When Reggie stroked this huge crystal bowl the sound slowly filled the room and vibrated like an ongoing siren, and also seemed to pierce my cranium and enter my poor battered 73 year old near delirious softened up brain and bust up minute particles, and I almost came to the point of covering my ears with both hands and making a horrible face, but instead withstood the invasion, realizing my trust in Reggie's singing bowls would end up salvaging in me some kind of therapeutic benefit, though at the same time I also felt that if I was locked in a dark cell for any prolonged amount of time and Reggie continued to touch the big crystal bowl over and over again, keening in and out of my ear drums like an all enveloping shriek that cracked the walls like the breaking of the sound barrier, I would surely go insane or a least become more rattled than I naturally am, though I'm sure Reggie would never even consider locking a knucklehead like me up in a room and hit that big crystal bowl and those bowls beside it over and over and over again until I did go stark raving mad and began beating on the walls and sobbing like a terrified child...
Is this the kind of energy healing that poor country club woman had to withstand? No wonder she acted like such a snooty, irritated bitch at my inquisition.
As I recall, at around 30 years old, I was deeply disappointed in my loneliness and despair at being rejected by one woman after another, along with a feeling of failure at everything I was doing, and plunged into a vortex of melancholia that was close to overwhelming, and my only salvation and balm, besides basketball and jumping into a cold ocean, was listening on my back in the darkness to Rachmaninoff”s 2nd Piano Concerto, perhaps the saddest piece of music ever written. It worked every time and sent me in a joyous mood to the nearest bar.
Anyway, at some point, once I get to know him any better, I'll broach the question to Reggie and ask him if energy healing has anything to do with his singing bowls. Right now, though, as we rest in total and courageous surrender, I find these singing bowls ultimately restful and will do my utmost to try and understand their influence down the line.
