I’m lying on the sofa in Estelle Bingham’s sitting room, slivers of sunlight reaching lazily through the white shutters, crystals balanced on my chest and solar plexus.
Estelle asks me to shut my eyes, and I know what’s coming next: a breathing exercise. I’m dreading it; I am not terribly good at allowing this breathwork business to affect me; my mind never quietens. I never enter a trance, and my thoughts start to dart around wondering why others are profoundly moved by it. From there, I try to decide if there’s something wrong with me which, as you may expect, diminishes my sense of zen considerably.
