At the back of the head between shoulders and skull there is a stalk of tender plant; it is the rise of spine sturdy enough to hold the sunflower-like head of a body and bendable like a flower twisting toward healing sun. That few inches of neck one can’t see without a mirror, that place with the hairs that stand up with fear, that few inches of neck I have stroked with attention and care on 1,000 bodies.
With permission for me to attend, with trust in a simple contract between trained massage therapist and client, people lie down on a magic carpet of table and while I bend over their aches and pains, their self-consciousness, their longing to unwind a bit, and their hunger to give in to just simply being. Specific needs might have been ticked off on an intake form, and there might be 10 minutes of telling a story about some insult to the physical, but usually by minute 11 there is a long sigh of release into the silent reception of comfort.
Just lying down on the table under a sheet, music gently soothing nearby, a candle flickering, gentle light kind to the spirit, starts an unwinding that is clearly underway by the time I enter the room and put my two hands on head or feet. With my palms I often feel a deepening of breath that signals yes. I have sometimes thought I could hold the feet or head for the whole hour and much good would happen. But other places call out. There is the back of the left knee looking so much like the face of a child; I cup it with both hands until I feel a tremble as if it has stopped crying to smile. And there is that hand that won’t unfurl despite long strokes from occiput to finger tips. For me to have “don’t know mind” is a good thing. This is when I so appreciate the fine training I received at the Santa Fe School of Massage, class of 1992. Be present, be patient. Nothing to fix here. Repeat strokes more slowly. Take my own deep breath. One more time and, yes, finally the clenched hand opens to become fingers of aspen leaves stirred by a passing warm summer breeze.
I’ve met fields of boulders on backs. As if I am walking along a desert stream, I negotiate hard and soft places, nimbly meeting flesh, bone and life. Are my circling thumbs finding a body that has been driving far too many hours? Or is it the memory of a sport injury locked into place by the pace of the days? Perhaps that fist of tight muscle arrived with a shattering blow to self-esteem inflicted by a hard childhood. Don’t know. Touch. Warm. Connect. Feel the rise and fall of breath joining the strokes. An image comes to me of Mormon Lake with a blanket of snow and through it, a gurgle of melting ice trickles across a curve of planet greeting a blue sky.
I’ve met arms made limp by snow shoveling. In wintry Flagstaff clients arrive in layers of polypro and wool and silk underwear. They peel things off and hang them to drip in a corner before lying naked where I’ve made a nest of heating blanket and L.L. Bean flannel sheets. With the room extra heated I’ll soon be damp with effort, but I don’t want an eased body to feel any tickle of chilling draft. When the session ends I’ll wish that tuned-up body could be magically transported to a cozy own cozy couch or bathtub, but no, the layers go back on to head out to an icy parking lot to sweep the windshield. It is a more resilient body, I hope.
I’ve met a lot of bums. Behinds. Glutes. “Do these sheets make me look fat?” might be a question someone lies down with, but after many minutes of my hands exploring from shoulders to hip bones, hopefully self-consciousness fades into wonder to feel how the rib cage meets the diaphragm, how legs approach the sacrum. Once, after my two hands finished widening circles deep into the glutes and then moved up slowly to connect the left side of the body to the nest of an armpit, a muffled voice murmured with wonder, “I think I LOVE my bum.”
I’ve never actually counted the number of bodies I’ve met, though that would be possible by looking through the calendars filed with the C schedule on years of tax returns. For a long time I met a broad range of public in my room in a busy chiropractor’s office and later in joint practice with a small town naturopath. And then for years I kept a massage room in my apartment to meet a small flock of repeat clients. Other income-producing behavior was always part of the mix. Even through my years as a fire lookout I honored my massage table and oils by keeping them out of storage so I was always ready to be still for an hour, to welcome the skin and muscles and tendons and being of someone needing touch.
For a few years now, actually, I’ve been a retired massage therapist and bend only occasionally to soothe friends and friends-of-friends. But lately I have been doing more sessions as people seem a bit wrung out from getting through 2016. I am happy to add a few peaceful hours to the balancing of distress in the world. I am so very grateful to have in my life this simple practice, a steady stance to take inside complicated puzzling times. I do think hard about the chaos and confusion of politics, and I also have a way to move toward wholeness and clarity, one body at a time. Breathe. Attend only what is in the room. Ground. Reach. Meet. Listen with willing hands. Enjoy. Be. Repeat.
