Meditation music is music performed to aid in the practice of meditation. It can have a specific religious content, but also more recently has been associated with modern composers who use meditation techniques in their process of composition, or who compose such music with no particular religious group as a focus.
binaural tones | meditation podcast
There were no roaches! I quickly roused everybody and in a few minutes, we were all standing around in the kitchen staring in disbelief. We came up with a few stray roaches, but no more than you would normally find in any house out in the country. We were perplexed, and as a result, no roaches were killed that day.
That evening, with furrowed brows, we passed a joint around again — our sixth roach meeting. We decided that roaches must be psychic and could obviously read minds, because they knew our intentions ahead of time, and we concluded that killing such special beings would, without doubt, inflict horrible karma on ourselves, so in no way could we kill them. Anyway, our problem had apparently solved itself, and everything was cool!
Well, not quite cool; the following morning after we decided not to kill the psychic roaches, you guessed it . . . all the roaches were back — in force. It was party time! But nevertheless, we ended up never killing a single roach, and luckily, as far as I know, the kids all survived.
Late one night, not long after the roach episode, we woke up to the sound of a chopper overhead and somebody yelling, “Eat your stash, eat your stash,” referring to our personal supplies of psychedelic mushrooms. The Tennessee National Guard and the Tennessee State Police were raiding our commune! Apparently, a week earlier their “eye in the sky” helicopter that regularly patrolled the state looking for marijuana fields mistook the neglected ragweed growing in our fields as dope. You can imagine how much love the State of Tennessee had in its heart for fifteen hundred, in-your-face, hippies!
We had three miscarriages that night resulting from the commotion and the chopper landing in the field; the incident frightened the expectant mothers to death, and the miscarriages devastated them — a miscarriage leaves scars. Early the next morning, our attorneys, who stopped the raiders dead in their tracks at the gate the previous night, were in the process of marching the big shots out into the fields to surrender our contraband ragweed. State Police lined the road outside our gate, standing at attention with their rifles and shotguns at the ready.
As we drove by in our pickups on our way to Nashville, we just happened to have some ragweed with us, and we did eat our whole stash of mushrooms the previous night. So feeling no pain, as we slowly passed the line of troopers, we tossed our ragweed, like darts, into their gun barrels, as they stood there obediently like wooden statues.
The Farm sued the State of Tennessee for a million dollars because of the duress they caused our community, but the Farm never followed through with it. The folks on the farm were committed to peace, which took a lot more courage than I thought. I learned how much courage when I witnessed a near-tragedy one afternoon while walking toward the gatehouse.
An old pickup, overflowing with nine drunken locals, flew up the dirt road in a cloud of dust and parked just outside the gate. They all poured out and ran up to the gatekeeper, a young, slight guy that had been at the commune since its inception. Two of the young drunks grabbed his long hair and pulled his head back, while another pulled out a large bowie knife and put to his neck. I couldn’t move, it was horrible, and everybody inside the gatehouse froze as well. After what seemed like an eternity, although probably only a few seconds, they threw him on the ground, stumbled back to their truck, laughing and yelling, and drove off. We all ran up to the gatekeeper, who was dusting himself off, and asked if he was all right. He said that everything was cool, that he was okay, and that we should just forget about it.
I couldn’t forget about it, and I ran across him about a week later. It was in the meadow where the entire community would meditate every Sunday before our big community meeting. I asked him if he was scared when they put the knife to his throat.
“Yeah, sure, but they were just drunk,” he said.
“What did they say?”
“They asked me what I’d do if the Russians came and raped my kids. Would I kill the Russians?”
“What did you say?”
“I said that right now, there ain’t no Russians, just a bunch of good old boys and me, and I was okay with that. Then they said that I was worthless, and threw me down.”
“You’re a pretty brave guy,” I said.
“Naw, I’m just okay with dyin. I learned a long time ago how the universe works,” he said apologetically, looking down.
The Farm was a real experience where I met exceptional people like the gatekeeper — and like ten-minute Denny (the walls in our household were paper-thin, acquainting everybody with each other’s intimate habits), who was a gifted musician. The three-day concerts that began every July 11 were remarkable, attended by the entire community — a meadow of delicate, hopeful faces turned toward the sun with their long hair blowing in the wind like a field of golden wheat.
The Farm touted four professional touring bands as well as many amateur artists, and with the non-stop music and all the families and kids camped out under the stars, it made one wonder why anyone would ever consider Wall Street as an alternative. What a great place for kids, and safe too, with UNICEF regularly monitoring them for any nutritional deficiencies. The only thing they found was a vitamin B-12 deficiency, which we handled by supplementing our soymilk. And our birthing record, using only mid-wives unless complications developed, was better than that of the state of Tennessee.
It wasn’t long before the memory of the July 11 concert began to fade, however, and the October mornings were turning a little cooler, and the days a little shorter, and with no real connections for a warm place to stay, (since I moved out of the crowded, noisy household in preference of a tent) I decided to return to California. But I had a problem; people who take a vow of poverty don’t have any money! So I snuck out of the commune without a penny on me and hitchhiked down the old country lane to Summertown.
Listening to music while you are meditating – not a good idea. … Anything you do with the thought that you are meditating is meditating. There are many ways to meditate. Personally, I find music to be distracting, but paying attention to sounds in your environment is part of insight meditation.
Types of meditation
Loving-kindness meditation. With the many types of meditation to try, there should be one to suit most individuals. …
Body scan or progressive relaxation. …
Mindfulness meditation. …
Breath awareness meditation. …
Kundalini yoga. …
Zen meditation. …
Transcendental Meditation.
Meditation is a habitual process of training your mind to focus and redirect your thoughts. You can use it to increase awareness of yourself and your surroundings. Many people think of it as a way to reduce stress and develop concentration.
Basic meditation music simply provides a way for an individual to go deeper with their meditation by adding a new layer to their experience. … Unlike many other music forms, the binaural beats work with the brain to develop a frequency most associated with relaxation.