Recently, for the very first time, I took a bath. And it was truly wonderful. Now, I appreciate how this must sound. Like I’m some deluded latter-day Tobit1; or young saddle-weary cowpoke a la Deadwood, hard off the dusty draw; or just busy spinning the sticky silks of another meta-fiction. But, I assure you, this is the opening reflection of Fathoms, which will explore all that influences my fiction. So this is my serious face. No, this one. Just here. That’s it. And, yes, it will no doubt add further fuel to your suspension-of-disbelief fire when I say it was all enjoyed fully clothed.
No need to bare with me, then, but definitely hear me out. Because, that is rather the point. You see, it was a sound bath! And, here’s what I discovered.
Flighted Beauty
One of my very occasional favourite treats is to hit up a new restaurant for their tasting menu. Though initially sceptical about the whole over-fussiness of the concept, I then actually tried one. With wine flight. And, wow, ok, got it. Symphonic food. Art, no less. Each mouthful engendering deep gratitude. That something so beautifully complex, so exquisitely tasty and so cleverly curated could exist solely for the pleasure of consumption, felt like that wild gratuitousness I most associate with the sacred. And as the rich waves of sound passed through and over and all about me lying on the floor in that bright and lightly incensed room, I quickly realised this too was a tasting menu. Only aural.
Words on a page really don’t do justice to the sheer heights and depths and widths of sound in that bath. You’ll just have to take the plunge yourself. Suffice to say, I’ll (ahem) give it a bash.
It’s a fair assumption that water cleanses. It’s an utter surprise to discover sound does too. Our world has grown so noisy. Indeed, overgrown with myriad invasive sounds - overhead jets, roadway gun and hum, supertanker thrum, rotors and pistons, cranks and shafts, horns and sirens, washing machines, drying machines, kettles and boilers, phones and tones, drills and hammers, loud hailers, headphones, and booming speakers. Of course, sound itself can also be weaponised, and that wasp-wing droning overhead might literally signify a visiting weapon of death. So just imagine twenty tasting menus of varying cuisines crammed into your mouth at once. Sound, like food, when combined in the wrong way or in saturation, seems to make us sick. With sound, though, it feels more low-level because relentless and so subtly pervasive. And that unhealthy ubiquitous cacophony stands in stark contrast to the kaleidoscope of profoundly regenerating sounds I experienced in the sound bath.
Umm
At risk of sounding a little Julie Andrews, another of my favourite things is holiday snorkelling. Once you’ve got the hang of the breathing, you can simply float on the surface among pretty fishies of all shapes and sizes that treat you somewhere between reverent curiosity and utter disdain. So, despite the occasional sea-broth sputter, there’s the sheer somatic thrill from controlled deep breathing and breath holding. Then there’s the rhythmic dance of sunlight through crystal blue waters captured everywhere in startling firework flashes. That would be enough, right? Except, all this for me was anticipated. Surprise lay elsewhere, and it literally came out of the blue. SOUND!
Beneath the splash and froth of surrounding holiday-making, there came a voice. As a rough-hewn teen, stood upon a Cornish bluff or beside a Scottish sea loch, I had second guessed my hearing as the fancies of an overactive imagination. But once in the ocean, there could be no doubt. There it was. That most ancient of songs. The echo of a forgotten musical speech. A deep, long-lost sound amid all the swash and backwash. The fish still know it, of course, and all other life aquatic. They indulged my eavesdropping. Which was appreciated.
Well, I was right back in that ocean during the sound bath. Whatever the sound is - original incantation of the cosmos? - it flows freely through the spectrums of the sound bath. It’s more like an encounter than something heard. Your body registers it, along with its benevolence. Floating is optional.
Of Warble And Shoreline
There’s a range of instruments (not quite the word) and, I understand, not everyone enjoys all the sounds. At one point, eyes seemed to be quivering in sockets and facial muscles took on a micro-life of their own. Joker-face? If memory serves, it’s called the Rainmaker, but when its sound transported me, there was not a drop of water in sight. It took me into the memory of a wonderful solitary walk along one of Hertfordshire’s many bridleways. A clear autumn sky suddenly fired fuchsia and gold in the light of the departing sun. Nearing a copse, a canopy of tree lodgers bristled in raucous conversation. A super-flock of starlings must have just finished the evening’s murmuration and were clearly enjoying a nightcap and good ole chinwag before turning in. Not so solitary, then. And, weirdly, not so alien a tongue. I stood still, a tourist in my own town, awash with the privilege of sound and the strange intimacy of this avian encounter.
Another sound-maker (still not quite the word) is made from nut shells. You guessed it, no nuts for me, unless of the sea. Because all I could hear was the shell-clap of live scallops fresh off the fishing boat, and the bubble-swish of waves over rocky mussel beds, and shingle and sand rinsing through newly exposed bladder wrack. It isn’t just the associations, though. It’s more like these sounds are reminders of, or better still, the frequencies of, our deeper selves pooled within nourishing memories.
Conclusion, or, Zing-Chilling
As mentioned before, (to near universal unsurprise), I’m no scientist. Yeah, but I’m still interested in science. And I believe anyone so minded can easily utilise the Interweb to verify the various health benefits of sound baths. My own body wasn’t exactly clamouring for case studies. The rest of the day was all about the zing: elevated mood, springy balls (feet!), and a smidge of velvety smooth prose. How I roll. After a sound bath, that is.
And as my body continued after-glowing (sorry) whilst I reflected some more on the whole experience, four things coalesced in my curiously wired mind, complete with accompanying ‘hahs!’ One, the Music of the Ainur; two, a sudden recall of one of the adventures of the ever-enlightening
; three, a cascading recall of this absolute beauty by poet,
; and four, on a personal and massively more modest scale, deeper awareness of the subconscious power of sound influencing the closing passage of my recent novella.
Heartfelt thanks to Mark Owen Ward for re/sounds, immersion and visualisations.
Header photo by Paul Levesley on Unsplash
2:9, Jerusalem Bible Translation
Beautiful, Adrian, and a lot to ponder here. The impact of sound is incredibly profound. I live in the country, and it is, for the most part, blissfully quiet. But a roadway nearby takes big trucks, and sometimes I hear them from my house. They are so obnoxious. I've noticed lately how little tolerance I have for the cacophony of noisy, busy places now that nature sounds dominate my landscape. I actually bought a set of hearing protection headphones like the ones I wear on my tractor for working at my office because sometimes the activity and chatter is too distracting. Do I look nuts? You bet. Am I peace? Absolutely :-)
"The Singing Bowl" resounds as does your essay.