I used to think I was a "crystal bowl person." Serene. Grounded. Pretty.
Then I met the gong.
It happened on a wooden platform overlooking a rice field in Bali. I had my four bowls with me — aqua blue, soft pink, lavender, light tea — arranged in a peaceful semicircle. The green stretched forever. The ducks mumbled.
And there hung a brass gong.
"Try it," said the woman who owned the land.
I hesitated. Gongs are loud. Aggressive. Not my style. But I took the mallet anyway.
I swung.
BRRRAAAANNNGGGGHHH.
The sound ate the whole field. My tidy little world got swallowed and spat back out wild. The gong didn't care about my chakras or my pretty bowls. It just was.
I laughed. Then I cried. Then the gong seemed to say, "Finally. You stopped trying to control everything."
The rice field rustled. Yeah, it whispered. What they said.
Here's the thing: bowls hold you. They hum, pure and honest, like the universe saying, "Stay right here. I've got you."The gong? The gong says, "Stay right here. Now let's break some things."
For the longest time, I thought I had to choose.
One golden afternoon, I got brave. I played the bowls first — soft pink, then aqua blue, lavender, light tea. One by one. Quiet. Gorgeous. I felt held.Then I hit the gong.
Not a roar — a rumble. Shadows under the bowls' pure tones. Thunder under a lullaby.
I played them together. Chaos and calm, wrestling and dancing in the Bali heat.
A farmer stopped on the path. He listened. Then he smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
I laughed so hard I almost dropped the mallet.
And right there — rice swaying, sun sinking — I stopped trying to make the sounds behave. I just felt.
The bowls reminded me who I was. The gong reminded me who I could be if I stopped being so tidy.
Now I play them together every time the field calls me back. I start with the bowls — to land. To remember softness. Then I bring in the gong — to shake loose whatever the bowls couldn't reach. And for one glorious, messy stretch in the middle, I play them all at once.Not because they sound "good" in a traditional way. But because they sound true against the rice and the wind and the fading light.
The bowls are the heart. The gong is the pulse.
One keeps you from flying apart.
The other keeps you from falling asleep.
And honestly? That's the whole dang point of being alive.
So if you ever find yourself in Bali, standing on a wooden platform with crystal bowls at your feet and a gong within reach, don't choose. Don't be tidy.Then hit the gong like you mean it.
Let the rice field decide what happens next.
It will know what to do.
