Inside the Singing Bowl

The air feels thick with sound. Invisible vibrations waving and spiraling, pulsing as they diffuse and consume. Deepa delicately places her hands around the cool thick brass. The dented vibrations run through her fingers. I place her hands under the bowl and together we carefully lift it off her legs. I gently tap the rim and watch as she soaks up the sounds as they transform and grow and then fade all around her. She straightens her back and tips back her neck, lifting her head up towards the sky. It is the reverse action she does to when she feels threatens and curls into herself. Instead, she opens herself up to the world around her, only when she feels confidence, excitement or joy. Her lips pull back into a strained grin and then she exhales her self back down towards the source of the sounds. The same tone but different waves, playing with her ears as she turns her head slowly in differing directions. She is exploring. I ding again (although a 'ding' bares no reality to the melting echo of the song).

I hold the wooden stick close to the sides of the bowl and then slowly move it around and around and around. Pressing as hard as I can without pushing the bowl off of Deepa's hands. The sound transforms into a sonic hum. It grows through the air, drowning the silence with a quiet shrill.I placed my hand under hers and lift the bowl up, sending a new wave of vibrations down over her head. A frown buried between her eyebrows. Total concentration. The initial smiles replaced by a dedicated commitment to absorbing. The shrill was now a warble of colours, only visible with closed eyes and complete concentration. Not only audible but absorbable. I remove the wooden stick and allow the sound to return the silence to the air. I wait. Deepa continues to listen. I am studying her reactions as she studies the texture of the air. I am in no doubt she can still hear what I can no longer. Meditation, being present. Being conscious of every sound and distracted by no other thought. She was still listening. She was still hearing. She crouched even further down, as if trying to hide herself inside of the source; inside of the bowl of colours, vibrations, waves and spirals, of endless songs, silent and thick, powerful and free.