Sunshine and Olly

by Serge J-F. Levy

I grew up in New York City in the 70’s and 80’s. 



I share that to invoke memories of a gritty, edgy city in which adolescent boys developed tough exteriors to manage tenuous interiors. 

Yoga, referred to as “yogurt” by my skeptical friends, was firmly seated in the realm of esoteric arts. So were coconut water, kale chips, Birkenstocks, drum circles, and rice cakes sprayed with Bragg Liquid Aminos. 

(We were young boys posturing in front of fragile egos.)

Through my teenage years, I grew a two-headed personality that combined a sweet gruffness with a hardened openness. 

Think of a kid wearing ripped jeans and a Minor Threat t-shirt sitting on a stoop, drinking a 40 of Olde English, gnawing on a pack of tofu-jerky dusted in nutritional yeast… while smoking a Marlboro Red. 

Think of the armor boys inherit and are expected to grow; the curse of having feelings that were too dangerous to express in societies that valorize traditional visions of masculinity. 

Think of how steeling oneself against the corrosive forces of emotion could be a vital tool for survival.  







Flash forward 35 years, (including 13 under the smelting  Sonoran Desert sun,) and some of that armor has sloughed off. 

Last week, I opened an email blast about a “sound bath” recitation at the Tucson Museum of Art. The ailing part of me immediately jumped at the opportunity: I had visions of vertebrae gliding into alignment, my heart resting from its persistent grief, and my future partner materializing from the vibrational ether. 

When I arrived at 6:04, the event’s leader was already inverting an impressive rainstick, while incanting vocal coaching, to lure people down from the high-wire of their urban lives. Her movements were gyroscopic: arms, hips and rainstick swirled in combination with her soothing, séance-like spells. 

Admittedly, my mystical meter was pinging pretty hard. 

Then the bath started. 






I should mention this all took place in one of the Museum’s off-shoot galleries. The low-ceilinged room was lined with exquisite, semi-abstract paintings, and one Calder-like mobile. 

I felt protective of the pieces: people casually leaned up against walls within inches of artwork drawn from the canon (or canon adjacent). I pondered whether the vibes would shake the paintings’ pigments loose?

At one point, I thought I saw the mobile dance. 

There were four crystal singing bowls arranged on a folding table adorned with an assortment of raptor feathers and unfinished gem stones (aka rocks). The scene was designed to be spiritual, but shared no harmony with the company it kept: perhaps 17th Century Tantric paintings, some Chagalls, an Andy Goldsworthy construction, or the works of Agnes Martin would have forged deeper resonance. 

Or maybe the art didn’t appreciate having the singing bowls in its space?

(It’s hard to know the answer to these questions.)

As to the performance, there was a disconnect between the subtle presence of the practitioner’s small stature, and the magnitude of the reverberations that emanated. 

The sound was disorienting and dis-equilibrating. 

It reminded me of the WaWaWa sensation from the wrong combination of open windows in a speeding car. 

But I like being thrown off-kilter, in controlled circumstances. 







A scan of the room yielded a cross section of Tucson: two middle-aged women locked and loaded with yoga mats and blankets. 

They took a supine position in a corner, beneath some glass-framed paintings. It appeared they were down for the count and fully transported.

I noticed an assortment of messages too: A Ben’s Bells “Be-Kind” t-shirt, another that advocated “cultivating compassion.” 

After scanning the regional attire, I was glad I left my Metallica “Metal Up Your Ass” shirt at home and went with the pima cotton, moss-green, waffle-knit henley. 

Many of the men had long hair--some in pony tails, others gathered in buns: these are notable observation for someone without any. 

At one point, I turned around and caught a levitating octogenarian out of the corner of my eye. 

(It appeared the sound bath was working for him.) 

Upon closer inspection, the folding canvas stool beneath him was just small enough that his legs covered its structure. 

There were a lot of heavy hearts, strained brows, and high shoulders. 

I counted myself among those many.   








A sound bath is a process for me. 

It’s about relinquishing, inviting and allowing. 

In this case, it was about witnessing my unconscious resistance to healing and growth. 

I wanted to welcome everything in. 

Yet I was aware boundaries were there. 

My internal conflict with new-age modalities, (and the emotional spectrum they tap into,) in turn became a barrier to receiving what buoyed so many in that room.  

To the untrained ear, singing bowls can sound like an hour of looping, droning tones. 

To my ear, the greatest practitioners can guide unpredictable adventures into the past, deep into the psyche and far from where I sit. 

I didn’t go that far or deep in this experience. 

(And my chakras remained out of balance.) 

I left sometime midstream… before the Tarot readings.

Then I went home to a bowl of tofu, brown rice and a side of broccoli... glazed in Bragg Liquid Aminos.