My son and I went to a free Sound Healing session at the local library. Meditative practices are generally not our thing, but we both need all the help we can get to settle our minds these days. Plus, it’s a grey midwestern Saturday in February. Needless to say, the room was packed.

The facilitator handed us each a sprig of lavender on the way in. The space was filled with a collection of mats, blankets, and chairs oriented toward a short platform stage. On top were 7 white crystal bowls arranged in a U-shape ordered by size. It was my son’s first sound healing session. It was my second, so I gave him the lowdown on what to expect, and we strategically situated ourselves close to the door.

It took everyone a while to settle. I felt annoyed by the steady stream of late comers, with the flash of light, half-whispers, and general jostling their entry brought with them. Then I reminded myself that the open environment of the library is exactly why we were here. In fact, when the opening facilitator asked if we had any questions, my son raised his hand to inquire if it would be OK to take a break and step out if needed. She assured him it would be.

Eventually, the room sunk into an ocean of undulating vibrations. I laid back on my yoga mat, shut my eyes, and placed a hand on my chest. With time, my awareness of my own heartbeat faded, and my mind wondered, though never too far from my son. I’d listen for his breath, his movements, and occasionally crack open on eye to peek.

His 6-foot frame was stretched atop the old quilt we managed to grab for him on our way out of the garage. Sometimes he seemed nearly asleep. Other times he wore a furrowed brow or bounced his leg nervously, but he stayed. He shifted to his side, tucking one hand under his opposing arm pit and the other hand between his folded legs. It reminded me of when he was a baby, and he would tuck his little hand inside my shirt collar. Still today when he naps on the couch, he tucks his feet between the couch cushions.

As my mind travelled back to our early days, I was reminded of the time soon after his autism diagnosis, when I was beginning to share the news with select others. It was such a vulnerable time. I was still processing what this new label meant for my son and my family. I was filtering it through a lifetime of pathologizing information about autism that simply didn’t fit our reality. People’s reactions often exacerbated my confusion.

Most people responded to his diagnosis with some form of awkward mumblings, unsure what to say. Others with an apology, which was even more confusing. Such reactions contributed to the overall feeling that we had experienced some form of tragedy or loss that had yet to take shape. One colleague did react gleefully, “That’s so exciting!” While refreshing, that response didn’t hit quite right either. However, I fondly recall one colleague’s response, in particular. He asked me with an attentive and neutral tone, “What is that like for you?” His question was so inviting and preemptively validating of whatever my experience might be.

As our current crystal serenade melted into mantras, my mind shifted to what I wanted to say to my son once the world of spoken words opened back up.  My first instinct was to lean into praise, “You did a great job.” Though laced with earnest pride, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the response was centering my feelings, not his. “Did you like it?” also came to mind, but that felt like a leading question. Then it came to me, crystal clear.

After the closing remarks, my son was the first one out the door, but he surprised me by coming back in to take pictures. He told me he wanted to remember it. Then he slipped that sprig of lavender behind his ear, and we headed out together. I held my question until we got back to the car. I wanted to be settled, so I could listen fully.

I turned the ignition, started up the heat, and then launched my carefully crafted query: “So, what was that like for you?”  He answered without much hesitation, “Well, it was relaxing. I don’t do yoga like you do, because I was born different. But it was something new we tried.”

It was indeed. I think I’ll be trying that one again.