Just outside of Joshua Tree, California is a little town called Landers. I don’t know that it’s really a town it’s just a place where the Integratron lives. The Integratron—a geodesic dome from the ’70s, celebrated as one of Earth’s sacred vortexes—wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. I’m not the type to leap headfirst into claims about interdimensional portals or cosmic vibrations. At least, I wasn’t back then. These days, my beliefs hover somewhere just north of woo-woo. But there I was, smack in the middle of the desert, about to partake in a “sound bath,” which, as it turns out, is a fancy name for lying down while someone plays bowls like a DJ for your chakras. Odd? Sure. But I pride myself on being open-minded—logical, even.
Interesting, though, that my son somehow embodies both logic and the mystical. At age two, he had insights I’m still trying to decode. So naturally, I called him the night before to ask what he thought about this whole sound bath ordeal. His answer? “You need it.” Need it? What’s that supposed to mean?
The structure itself was impressive. Although not much to look at from the outside, it was a minimalist cathedral on the inside. Sunlight filtered through windows above, casting an ethereal glow. The acoustics were wild—every whisper could be heard across the room. Around me, at least twenty tourists, locals, and cosmic energy workers sprawled on mats quiet and calm.
Then he walked in. A young man, maybe mid-20s, with sun-bleached hair and sculpted beard. His patched Bohemian shorts looked like they’d endured the winds and wear of Coachella and Burning Man, and he carried a leather satchel like a mystical mail carrier. He dropped onto the mat next to mine, exuding the kind of casual charm that could only come from not owning a clock.
“First time?” he asked, his voice slow and deep
I nodded, careful not to ogle the tattoos peeking out from his tank top. “I thought I was here for the novelty but now I think there’s a plan and I’m intrigued.”
He smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry. The sound bath will open your third eye, whether you believe in it or not.”
I rolled my two regular eyes hard enough to count as cardio but kept my skepticism under wraps.
The session began with the facilitator explaining how the bowls’ tones would align our energy fields. “Sure,” I thought, “and maybe the squeak of my trailer door harmonizes with my dental plan.” But I lay back anyway, determined to embrace the unknown because, although I sound like a skeptic, I believe in that.
The sound started soft—a single resonant tone that lingered in the air. More tones followed, layering into something unexpectedly soothing. Against all odds, I felt myself relax.
Midway through, my neighbor tapped my arm. I opened an eye to find him holding out a quartz crystal. “Hold this,” he whispered. “It’ll amplify the energy.”
Oh, why not? I took it, resisting the urge to ask if it came with batteries. But then something odd happened—a faint warmth spread through my palm. Was it the crystal? The sound waves? Dehydration? I glanced over to see him lying back, serene, like he was on a direct call with the cosmos.
The session ended with a deep, resonant tone that felt like it vibrated in my ribcage. People sat up slowly, looking blissed out. I handed the crystal back, and he smiled. “Feel anything?”
“Yeah,” I said, “like I just spent an hour under a giant tuning fork.Truthfully though, a great experience.”
He laughed, a warm, melodic sound. “That’s the Integratron for you. Sometimes, you just have to let go and let the energy flow.”
I wanted to counter with something snarky, but the truth was, I did feel different. Lighter. Calmer. As I stepped outside, the desert sun painted the horizon in oranges and pinks.
“See you around the vortex,” he said, winking before strolling off like a desert oracle.
Huh. Maybe I’d stick around another day.