Looking back, I don't remember much daydreaming during some of the most anxious years of my life.

My attention always seemed to have a job.

There was always something to solve.

Something to anticipate.

Something to manage.

An anxious mind rarely wanders.

It scans.

Monitors.

Protects.

It keeps watch.

As those conversations grew, Fulton Market felt like the natural place for us to expand.

The location allows us to better serve both individual practitioners and the growing number of organizations looking to incorporate meditation, mindful listening, and sound-based experiences into their wellness initiatives.

In many ways, Fulton Market has become the corporate wellness home of Yoga Sound Bath.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately.

Not time in the abstract. Not the philosophical mystery of whether it moves in a straight line or whether the past ever truly disappears.

My time.

The actual hours and days that make up my life.

We tend to think we're avoiding our feelings.

But maybe most of the time we're simply outrunning our awareness of them.

Eventually life catches us.

Eventually we sit still long enough.

And then there they are.

Waiting.

People often ask how many crystal bowls they need. It is an understandable question, especially when they are beginning to build a collection. There is always another note, another octave, another size, or another bowl that seems capable of completing what they already have.

Jung once wrote that symptoms are often not enemies but messages from parts of ourselves we have not yet learned to hear. We tend to experience them as disruptions because they arrive uninvited. But from another perspective, they may simply be attempts by the psyche to restore balance.

Many wellness spaces strive to create a perfectly controlled environment.

We don’t.

Our studios are part of a living city. Depending on the day, you may hear a train, a siren, footsteps in the hallway, or the subtle sounds of the building itself.

Rather than treating these sounds as distractions, we invite you to include them in your practice.

We believe peace isn’t something that appears only when everything is quiet. It’s something we learn to access even while life continues unfolding around us.

In that sense, our goal isn’t silence from the outside in.

It’s silence from the inside out.

We often assume love means helping someone move toward happiness, stability, success, healing, clarity. But all of those ideas are shaped by our own experience, values, fears, and desires. One person’s healing is another person’s collapse. One person’s freedom is another person’s instability. One person’s truth is another person’s disaster.

The older I get, the more I realize that most people are not looking for someone to solve their lives for them. And honestly, most of us don’t want to be told what to do anyway, especially when we’re vulnerable, uncertain, or hurting.

What people often need is something much quieter. Not answers, but presence.

Someone who can sit with them without immediately trying to fix the experience.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to live a frantic life where entire weeks disappear because I’m too busy to feel them.

Too busy to eat a slow lunch.

Too busy to sit still.

Too busy to actually experience my own life while I’m living it.

I came across something recently about how the brain works. The same parts of the brain that are active when we see are also active when we imagine. Not similar parts. The same. Which makes the line between what is happening and what we experience feel less fixed than it first appears.

It starts to feel like life isn’t just something we observe. It’s something we participate in.

I was driving on Lakeshore Drive, listening to a track by East Forest. There’s a voice over the music, calm, steady, almost distant.

And I kept hearing:

“I am loving the wind.”

Over and over.

I was moving through traffic, one of those drives where everything just flows, and somewhere in the middle of it, something opened.

I started laughing. Then crying. Then both at the same time.

Every so often, someone comes up to me after a session and says some version of this:

“I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

“Nothing really happened for me.”

“I don’t see or feel what other people are describing.”

If you’ve ever felt that way, this is for you.

For a long time, I thought the purpose of a sound bath was relaxation.

I don't think that's quite right anymore.

Relaxation is wonderful.

But I don't think it's the purpose.

I think the purpose is revelation.

This week I’ve been reflecting on something I hear often at the end of a sound bath. People will say, “My mind was so active today,” or “I couldn’t turn it off.” There’s something quiet underneath those words, a sense that something didn’t go as it should have, that the practice didn’t quite work. But I’m not so sure that’s true.

There is a quiet assumption that most musicians carry with them, often without realizing it. Sound is expected to move. Harmony is expected to resolve. Time is expected to carry the listener somewhere.

This assumption is so deeply embedded in Western musical training that when musicians first encounter crystal singing bowls, something feels disorienting. The tools they have relied on for years do not disappear, but they begin to lose their central authority.

I have been asked many times about how to approach bowls as a musician, and more recently, how I am composing my upcoming evening-length work, Before the First Peace, a piece built not just with crystal bowls, but with a full spectrum of resonant instruments designed to create an immersive sound field. The question underneath all of these conversations is the same:

How do you compose when the instrument resists progression?

If you come from a background in guitar, piano, or composition, crystal singing bowls can feel unexpectedly disorienting. On the surface, they appear simple. They are labeled with familiar note names such as C, D, or A. But very quickly, questions arise:

• Why do most bowls sound higher than expected?

• Where are the lower octaves I am used to working with?

• Why do different brands feel inconsistent?

• And perhaps most importantly, how does musical theory actually apply here?

Last week I had two experiences that could not have been more different.

One reminded me what it feels like to be fully present with another human being.
The other reminded me what it feels like to lose yourself entirely.

The contrast between them revealed something important about the long path of becoming yourself.

One of the challenges at the beginning of a sound bath is that you can lie down without really arriving.

Your body may be on the mat, but your mind is still finishing the day. You are thinking about something that happened earlier, something you need to do later, whether you are comfortable, whether you are doing this correctly, or what you hope will happen once the sound begins.

So lately I have been experimenting with different ways of helping people enter the sound bath through the body rather than through the mind.

One of them I have started calling Boundaryless Meditation.

Most people live lives shaped largely by inheritance. Not genetic inheritance, but cultural and relational inheritance—ideas about success, stability, responsibility, and what a meaningful life is supposed to look like. These ideas come from parents, schools, social structures, and the quiet pressure to fit into a recognizable path.