Field Notes on Light and Earth: Taking the Loom Outside

It started with a woman on a trail. I met her in early March, just as spring was stretching its limbs across the Midlands. We stood beside a quiet path, bare trees above, a damp chill still clinging to the season, and she told me that in about three weeks, the bluebells would come. That the woods around here would be transformed, blanketed in a violet tide.

She was right. Almost exactly three weeks later, I returned with anticipation humming through me. But the forest was still green, not yet in bloom, hesitant to open. I began to visit weekly, letting the changes unfold in their own rhythm. One Sunday, I turned a corner and the woods had tipped into dream. Bluebells everywhere. Petal upon petal, carpeting the earth like some forgotten cathedral floor. I unpacked the Loom light and lay down among them.

The session that followed was unlike any I had inside. The filtered daylight, the incense I had brought in a small pouch, the soft breath of wind across my skin, it all stitched itself into the fabric of the experience. As the Loom pulsed its steady rhythm, tuned to alpha frequencies, I noticed something curious: the visuals behind my closed eyes responded to sound. Birds called from the canopy and I could see, yes, see, ripples of light radiate from their direction. A sensory echo, like the forest was speaking in frequency.

This is something no app or studio can replicate. The earth beneath you is not just grounding in theory, it’s literal. You feel the hum of it, the stillness of soil, the steadiness of stone. When you lay flat on the ground during a Loom session, you become a bridge between light and earth. The Schumann frequency, the electromagnetic resonance of our planet, isn’t just an abstract concept in this setting. It's a presence, especially when layered through the Loom’s entrainment settings.

The air, too, has its part to play. Wind rushing through trees provides a kind of natural white noise, textured and irregular. Unlike the droning hum of a machine, it's alive and unpredictable. It weaves around the session in a way that keeps the body alert and the mind in soft suspension. The skin becomes a canvas for the breeze, turning the light practice into something tactile.

And then there’s water. Immersing even part of the body into a natural stream or pond, ankles in a river or laying back into still water, slows the body down almost immediately. Combine that with delta frequencies, especially in the early hours of the morning or just before dusk, and something ancient is unlocked. You aren’t just relaxing. You’re remembering. Tuning into something bigger and older than you.

Fragrance is another layer. A few grains of frankincense, a small fire pit, the mossy breath of the forest itself. Scent is primal, and when woven into the multi-sensory fabric of an outdoor session, it deepens the trance. You don’t just smell the smoke, you follow it, inward.

We often think of brainwave entrainment as a personal practice, headphones, darkness, perhaps a meditation cushion. But the Loom is portable for a reason. It’s meant to leave the house. To go into the forest, onto the shore, under the sky. The warmer seasons are not just more comfortable, they are catalytic. They invite us to co-create with the elements, to allow nature to become the co-facilitator of our altered states.

A field becomes a temple. A patch of bluebells, a stained-glass dome. The body, a resonator.

Take the Loom outside. Let it meet the wind, the water, the earth, and let yourself be changed.