I participated in a Wellness Faire on Saturday with the Collective I recently joined, excited to offer mini sound baths throughout the afternoon for anyone who wanted to experience one. I was also to co-facilitate a collective sound bath with two other practitioners at the end of the event. Attendees could sign up for mini sessions with the various practitioners and explore a range of healing offerings throughout the day, each offered at a nominal cost. Instead, I spent the next three days learning a rather different lesson in wellness: sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is stop.

I arrived excited about the day, hoping that people would want to experience a mini sound bath. Before we opened our doors to guests, we were gifted with ceremonial cacao lovingly prepared by two of the practitioners. I had never had cacao before, so I was excited to try this offering.

The afternoon started slowly. Another practitioner and I did an energy exchange: she offered me a quantum healing session, which I found extremely fascinating, and I offered her a mini sound experience in return. As the day wore on, however, I began experiencing some cramping. I didn’t think much of it at first and found someone who had some ibuprofen. I took four and continued on.

The cramping worsened to the point that I felt I needed to go home and grab a heating pad. But once I got home, I realized I really wasn’t feeling well and begrudgingly made the decision to stay home. The lead practitioner was understanding and reassured me not to worry. After all, with a collective of practitioners, everything would be okay.

In my haste to leave the Collective, I left my instruments set up in the space given to me. I hated doing that, but I was getting sicker by the minute. In fact that evening, I experienced such severe cramping that I thought I might pass out. I spent most of the night in the bathroom. I was so disappointed in myself and in my body to have to leave and miss the collective sound bath. It felt like a punishment in some way from the Universe.

Looking back, I’m fairly certain the cacao contributed to my illness. I’m pretty sensitive to herbs and have a small frame, but didn’t think anything of it beforehand because it was new to me. I also hadn’t eaten much that day. I later learned that cacao can cause digestive upset, particularly when consumed on an empty stomach, and I’m sure taking four ibuprofen while I was already experiencing stomach distress didn’t help. Whatever the exact cause, my body was clearly having a very strong reaction to something. And, as far as I knew, no one else at the Faire experienced anything similar.

What I didn’t anticipate was that, in my absence, my Tibetan and crystal singing bowls would be used by another practitioner for the collective sound bath. My Tibetan and crystal singing bowls aren’t merely equipment I use in my work. They are instruments I have carefully chosen, worked with, touched, played, listened to, developed relationships with, and incorporated into my practice. My energetic resonance lives within them, and their energetic resonance resides within me.

When I unexpectedly had to leave them behind, I experienced an entirely different kind of vulnerability. To later see photographs of another practitioner using my bowls without my permission broke my heart. They carry a meaning for me that isn’t necessarily visible from the outside. They are not interchangeable tools to me. They are part of my practice, my relationship with sound, and the way I offer healing to others.

I am still struggling with how to process all of it. Part of me worries that speaking up about it will make me appear selfish or ungrateful to the practitioners who stepped in to facilitate the sound bath in my absence. I can acknowledge that their intention may have been generous. Perhaps my bowls helped create a meaningful experience for those who attended. Perhaps they even supported the practitioners who used them.

And yet, something in me keeps saying: this was still a boundary crossing.

Both things can be true. I can appreciate the intention behind someone’s actions and still feel that they should have asked my permission. I don’t think honoring a boundary makes me selfish, and I don’t think protecting the things that carry deep meaning for me diminishes the generosity of those who were trying to help.

Perhaps this is part of the listening I am being asked to practice: learning to distinguish between being ungrateful and having a boundary. They are not the same thing.

I continue to be a student. I am learning to sit with what is difficult for me to confront, while still standing firm in my values and beliefs, even when doing so may be uncomfortable or misunderstood by others. It is a difficult lesson.

Apparently, the Universe had not finished making its point.

The next evening, I felt weak, but better than the night before, so I went to retrieve my instruments. As I was getting ready to load everything, I discovered that I had a flat tire. WTF?! I called AAA for a tow only to realize that all the tire shops were closed. I decided to leave my car overnight in the parking lot, Uber home, and deal with towing and repair the next morning.

Yesterday morning, I Ubered back to the Collective, contacted AAA once again, and a tow truck was dispatched. I received a message saying that the the tow truck had arrived, yet there was no tow truck in sight. Minutes later I receive a call from the driver, who had been dispatched to my home address. OMG.

“Not a problem,” he tells me, and made his way to my location. All the while, I was hoping I wouln’t be charged for the tow and additional miles. When the truck finally arrived, I was greeted by an older friendly man who reassured me that he had me covered. He also gently touched my shoulder, which, admittedly, creeped me out a little. We arrived at the supposed destination, only to discover that dispatch had once again sent him to the wrong location. Again.

So around we turned and made our way to the tire shop.

By the time we arrived, I was feeling vulnerable, exhausted, inconvenienced, and dependent on other people. I was so relieved that the tow truck driver turned out to be a genuinely helpful guy and that I was immediately greeted by a friendly dude at the tire shop. Two other guys came out to examine the damage and provide an estimate. They had my car fixed in no time, and the cost of the tire was extremely affordable. I was deeply grateful for the honesty and assistance I received.

I’d been bracing myself for the possibility that I’d have to defend myself against being taken advantage of. Instead, I was helped. There was no fight, no negotiation, no need to prove anything. Just strangers doing their job well and treating me with kindness.

It was a huge comfort to realize that, for once, I didn’t have to be the one holding everything together.

I suppose the larger lesson here for me, as someone who is used to defending herself and has experienced a lifetime of having to do so, is that I don’t always have to armor up for every situation. Every once in a while, the Universe works in my favor.

I’m wondering what it would be like to lay down my armor and let go, while still maintaining my boundaries. It feels extremely vulnerable to not armor up. To let go. To receive help, or even ask for it. I’m used to figuring shit out on my own, but it takes an energetic toll.

So perhaps this is a new life lesson, or one that I just haven’t learned yet: trusting myself to know when to lay down a boundary and keep it firm, even if it pisses people off. Trusting that other people will respect me when I ask for help.

God that seems like a super tall order.

One that I may continue to struggle with. I still feel disappointed that I wasn’t able to finish strong at the Wellness Faire. I wanted to be there. I wanted to co-facilitate the sound bath. I wanted the day to unfold differently.

But I also listened to my body when it said, “Go home.”

Perhaps that’s enough for now.

The only thing to do is recover, be kind to my heart, and hold on to my truth. The rest will have to wait.

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This isn’t typically my kind of music. I’m usually more at home with Turnstile, Wolf Alice, or Beach House. But this song feels especially vulnerable to me right now. I’ve been carrying a lot of heartache, and somehow this quiet, tender song found its way in. Maybe that’s part of laying down the armor.

Winter Song by Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson

Photo by Anna Saveleva on Unsplash