Holy crap, what a year.
I mean, What. A. Year. (in the parlance of the age)
But really, it was a biggie. So many ups and downs, and so many things that have been long-awaited finally arrived. Some arrived with a BOOM, some trickled in, some snuck in mostly unnoticed.
For me, I finished school for Massage Therapy. It was a year-long program that was really freaking intense, and I finished in August with a 4.0. I've never had a 4.0 before, and it was a novel and somewhat unsettling experience. I was motivated by fear of failure; I was afraid that if I gave myself an inch, I'd fail by a mile. Any time I found myself not completely understanding a concept, I would be online, researching through the Mayo Clinic's website or getting onto Harvard School of Medicine's databases until I knew everything I could. In retrospect, I may have gone a trifle overboard, but after training to be a classical flutist and doing auditions, the only preparation I know how to do is the massively overachieving kind.
Just before I finished massage school, I took my state certification exam and well, I over-prepared again and blasted about 200 points over the "pass" level. I'm actually pretty proud of that one. Immediately upon passing, I applied for my state license, which I got as soon as I finally graduated and sent in my certificate.
I had picked up a couple small jobs at salons, but they were not yielding many clients, so within a week of getting my license in hand, I had arranged three interviews with chiropractors. I got offered the first one and I accepted, so I had a really great job (for me, anyway) two weeks out of school.
I'm still teaching flute privately Tuesdays and Thursdays (afternoons and evenings) and all day Fridays, and working at the chiro all day Mondays and Wednesdays, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and Saturday mornings. Yes, it's busy. Very, very busy, but it'll settle out sometime.
My husband (he who shall not be blogged about) got a tremendous honor this year and a long-awaited achievement. I'm very proud and relieved.
My kids started a new school which we have yet to decide if it was a good or poor decision. It looked great 'on paper' but we're having some settling-in pains.
So all in all, a big year for our little clan. I am hoping that this next year, without all the pressure and pent-up worry and anticipation, things have a chance to bloom fully and lush.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Pregnant Lady
I've given several pre-natal massages (massaging pregnant ladies), but this week's was even more special than usual.
She's about, oh, 6 months pregnant. She was perfectly healthy, not her first pregnancy; a young beautiful woman, just having the usual lower back discomfort typical in this part of pregnancy.
Whenever I begin a massage, I stand for a moment, hands either hovering just above or lightly touching my client's back or head, taking the measure of the day. Is she stressed? Angry? Sad? Tired? Hurting? Joyous? Relaxed?
She was calm, receptive, and happy. So happy. As I loosened tight muscles and mobilized overworked joints, I felt her energy. It was ... pregnant. Full. Brimming.
It was like looking at a rich, thick blue fabric, but when you get close, you see the tiny pink pinstripes worked into it. Multi-layered. And she was so beautiful. It was more than just a pretty face, although she would be considered lovely in any situation. But her skin was so full, so curved. She said it would be ok for me to gently massage her belly, so I did, first mentally asking permission. Hello, Baby. I'm helping Mama feel nice. Sleep well, Baby.
She slept through much of the massage, and upon emerging from the room after the massage, stretched luxuriously and smiled sleepily.
I think she'll be back.
She's about, oh, 6 months pregnant. She was perfectly healthy, not her first pregnancy; a young beautiful woman, just having the usual lower back discomfort typical in this part of pregnancy.
 |
| Not actual client, FYI. |
Whenever I begin a massage, I stand for a moment, hands either hovering just above or lightly touching my client's back or head, taking the measure of the day. Is she stressed? Angry? Sad? Tired? Hurting? Joyous? Relaxed?
She was calm, receptive, and happy. So happy. As I loosened tight muscles and mobilized overworked joints, I felt her energy. It was ... pregnant. Full. Brimming.
It was like looking at a rich, thick blue fabric, but when you get close, you see the tiny pink pinstripes worked into it. Multi-layered. And she was so beautiful. It was more than just a pretty face, although she would be considered lovely in any situation. But her skin was so full, so curved. She said it would be ok for me to gently massage her belly, so I did, first mentally asking permission. Hello, Baby. I'm helping Mama feel nice. Sleep well, Baby.
She slept through much of the massage, and upon emerging from the room after the massage, stretched luxuriously and smiled sleepily.
I think she'll be back.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Why I Don't Take More Showers
I used to be the "can't live without a shower each and every morning" kind of girl. Now, I'm lucky if it's every other day. (Except in the summer time when it's all hot and I sweat. Then I take lots of showers. Don't hate.) There's a good reason.
The house can be SILENT -- husband w/headphones on, doing work, kids in rooms reading or whatnot, dogs sleeping. I think, "This is it. The moment when I can hop in for my 4-minute shower and get in and out and clean and then get on with my day."
Then. I hear "Mama?" and the door opens. Then I hear the flapping of little boy feet on the bathroom tile. Then I hear dog toenails clacking. Then pretty soon, I hear my daughter asking, "What's going on? Why are you in the bathroom, Simon?" Then I start telling everybody to please leave me alone for the 3.7 seconds it takes me to rinse my hair.
Then HUSBAND senses a disturbance in the Force, and comes to see what's up. And now, in our tiny bathroom, we have two elementary school kids, two confused dogs, and my husband. And now I can't even get OUT of the shower because there's no damned room.
Finally, I shoo them all out with the threat that I'm actually going to just get out of the shower wet and naked, and if they want that seared into their brains, that's their own problem. They finally leave.
And I reach for it, only to find they have somehow, for some mysterious reason, taken the towel.
*End Scene*
The house can be SILENT -- husband w/headphones on, doing work, kids in rooms reading or whatnot, dogs sleeping. I think, "This is it. The moment when I can hop in for my 4-minute shower and get in and out and clean and then get on with my day."
Then. I hear "Mama?" and the door opens. Then I hear the flapping of little boy feet on the bathroom tile. Then I hear dog toenails clacking. Then pretty soon, I hear my daughter asking, "What's going on? Why are you in the bathroom, Simon?" Then I start telling everybody to please leave me alone for the 3.7 seconds it takes me to rinse my hair.
Then HUSBAND senses a disturbance in the Force, and comes to see what's up. And now, in our tiny bathroom, we have two elementary school kids, two confused dogs, and my husband. And now I can't even get OUT of the shower because there's no damned room.
Finally, I shoo them all out with the threat that I'm actually going to just get out of the shower wet and naked, and if they want that seared into their brains, that's their own problem. They finally leave.
And I reach for it, only to find they have somehow, for some mysterious reason, taken the towel.
*End Scene*
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Tales From the (Massage) Table: First, Do No Harm. In Fact, Be Gentle. Really, Really Gentle.
There is a wonderful, lovely woman. She has lots of health issues, and as a result, goes to lots of doctors, therapists, x-ray people, and so on. It hurts her to stand, to move, to sit, to ... pretty much everything hurts.
When I first saw her, she had been to a physician, a radiologist, and another healthcare person. The first had scolded her, the second had rushed her and moved her body abruptly for the scans, and the last tried to be calming, but still insisted on prodding her (probably for good reason -- who knows?).
Bu the time she got to me, she was looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She was suffering, and not just physically. She was breathless, wild-eyed, worried, panicky, and limping.
The recommendation from one of her providers was that she "needed deep work on her glutes, etc."
Then I heard as her husband helped her get on the massage table, propping her with pillows, adding an icepack onto an aching limb, and positioning her just so. She was nearly crying with pain. She sounded so hopeless, so upset. So frantic.
When I came in, she was breathing hard, and talking at me about her aches and pains. Not to me. At me. Protecting herself with words.
I stood near her, still. I said that the recommendation was that she needed "deep work," but perhaps that the last thing she needed today was someone else hurting her.
She stopped talking for a moment.
"What?"
"Well, I thought that perhaps instead of doing anything that would cause you distress or pain, I could just help you feel a little better."
"Oh. Well, ok."
I began lightly, gently, to apply warmed lotion to her back. As I moved over her back, shoulders, and arms, I tucked the other parts into the warm, fluffy blanket so she stayed warm. I kept my movements steady, rhythmic, gentle. Her shoulders and arms didn't hurt at all, so I spent some time kneading them, taking advantage of the fact that making something feel good can release endorphins in the body. Endorphins can start a wonderful cascade of relaxation leading to enjoyment, leading to more relaxation.
Within minutes, I heard her breath slow; I felt her relax. I gently started working on the "problem areas" on her low back and glutes. They initially tensed up. I told her quietly that I was only going to do what the muscles let me, and that I would not try to "fix" them, but just warm them up and help the blood flow more easily. Before long, her surface muscles let go, and then the deeper muscles began to be more flexible. I did not attempt any deep pressure or any "goal-related" work. I just tried to let her muscles know that someone out there was not planning on hurting them today.
After our 30 minute massage (that was all she thought she'd be able to handle), her husband helped her off of the table. He came out while she dressed, saying, "I can't believe it. She got such relief in just 30 minutes!"
She came out and hugged me, thanked me, and then walked -- WALKED, not limped -- out.
They came in the very next day for another massage. This time, she looked like an entirely different person. She had her hair done, some lipstick on, and she actually looked right at me and smiled. No talking at me.
This massage was different. She trusted me immediately, and before long, fell asleep. At the end, I gently shook her shoulder and said that it was time to rejoin the world she was amazed she had slept.
Because she got such tremendous relief from just a 30 minute massage, she has scheduled two to three short massages a week for the next few months. I can only hope that she continues to feel better.
When I first saw her, she had been to a physician, a radiologist, and another healthcare person. The first had scolded her, the second had rushed her and moved her body abruptly for the scans, and the last tried to be calming, but still insisted on prodding her (probably for good reason -- who knows?).
Bu the time she got to me, she was looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She was suffering, and not just physically. She was breathless, wild-eyed, worried, panicky, and limping.
The recommendation from one of her providers was that she "needed deep work on her glutes, etc."
Then I heard as her husband helped her get on the massage table, propping her with pillows, adding an icepack onto an aching limb, and positioning her just so. She was nearly crying with pain. She sounded so hopeless, so upset. So frantic.
When I came in, she was breathing hard, and talking at me about her aches and pains. Not to me. At me. Protecting herself with words.
I stood near her, still. I said that the recommendation was that she needed "deep work," but perhaps that the last thing she needed today was someone else hurting her.
She stopped talking for a moment.
"What?"
"Well, I thought that perhaps instead of doing anything that would cause you distress or pain, I could just help you feel a little better."
"Oh. Well, ok."
I began lightly, gently, to apply warmed lotion to her back. As I moved over her back, shoulders, and arms, I tucked the other parts into the warm, fluffy blanket so she stayed warm. I kept my movements steady, rhythmic, gentle. Her shoulders and arms didn't hurt at all, so I spent some time kneading them, taking advantage of the fact that making something feel good can release endorphins in the body. Endorphins can start a wonderful cascade of relaxation leading to enjoyment, leading to more relaxation.
Within minutes, I heard her breath slow; I felt her relax. I gently started working on the "problem areas" on her low back and glutes. They initially tensed up. I told her quietly that I was only going to do what the muscles let me, and that I would not try to "fix" them, but just warm them up and help the blood flow more easily. Before long, her surface muscles let go, and then the deeper muscles began to be more flexible. I did not attempt any deep pressure or any "goal-related" work. I just tried to let her muscles know that someone out there was not planning on hurting them today.
After our 30 minute massage (that was all she thought she'd be able to handle), her husband helped her off of the table. He came out while she dressed, saying, "I can't believe it. She got such relief in just 30 minutes!"
She came out and hugged me, thanked me, and then walked -- WALKED, not limped -- out.
They came in the very next day for another massage. This time, she looked like an entirely different person. She had her hair done, some lipstick on, and she actually looked right at me and smiled. No talking at me.
This massage was different. She trusted me immediately, and before long, fell asleep. At the end, I gently shook her shoulder and said that it was time to rejoin the world she was amazed she had slept.
Because she got such tremendous relief from just a 30 minute massage, she has scheduled two to three short massages a week for the next few months. I can only hope that she continues to feel better.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Lessons In Hot Stone Massage
I recently bought myself some basalt stones to start incorporating hot stone massage into my practice.
A few important things to remember:
1: Rocks don't glide well when they're not oiled or anything. (I should totally have seen that coming, I suppose.)
2: If you've already lubricated the person's back or the stones with oil or lotion, that's fine. However, said stones will not stay put on the person's back if you let go of them (like in this picture):
They slide right off. You can pretend that is a new "chakra-enhancing automatic sliding hot stones" technique if you want, but I doubt they'll believe it.
3: If you decide to re-position the stones, and so pile these rather large stones all into one hand whilst getting a squirt of lotion with your other hand, DO NOT -- I repeat -- DO NOT clutch those couple of large, slippery, hot stones in one hand DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR CLIENT'S HEAD. Please remember that point.
[No clients or therapists were actually injured in today's massages. Just a little discombobulated.]
A few important things to remember:
1: Rocks don't glide well when they're not oiled or anything. (I should totally have seen that coming, I suppose.)
2: If you've already lubricated the person's back or the stones with oil or lotion, that's fine. However, said stones will not stay put on the person's back if you let go of them (like in this picture):
They slide right off. You can pretend that is a new "chakra-enhancing automatic sliding hot stones" technique if you want, but I doubt they'll believe it.
3: If you decide to re-position the stones, and so pile these rather large stones all into one hand whilst getting a squirt of lotion with your other hand, DO NOT -- I repeat -- DO NOT clutch those couple of large, slippery, hot stones in one hand DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR CLIENT'S HEAD. Please remember that point.
[No clients or therapists were actually injured in today's massages. Just a little discombobulated.]
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Tales From the (Massage) Table: The Tragedy That Is "Massage Music."
I've been trying to find some music to play during massages, but, being a musician, I have some rather stringent guidelines.
1: NO. ENYA. See here.
2: No symphonic music. I have played so much of it, I get caught up in it. I find myself accenting along with Berlioz, much to my client's dismay.
3: No panpipe. For god's sake, no panpipe. I feel like we should go all Terminator and go back in time and sterilize Zamfir's mother. (I wouldn't kill her -- she may have had other non-panpiper children--wait. That wouldn't work either. I'd think of something.)
4: No synthesized covers of pop music. My ears wanted to suck themselves back into my skull when I heard -- get this -- Greatest Hits by the BEATLES -- on PANPIPE. With synthesized backup. I shudder at the memory.
5: No 'classical' music played (synthesized or real instruments) at excruciatingly slow tempi "because it's for MASSAGE music. That will be so sooooothing." Except for the flutist/massage therapist who is slowly asphyxiating because I always tend to breathe along with the phrases of things I've played. Somewhere out there is an oboist with whom I need to have some serious words. Entre'acte from Carmen (Bizet) is supposed to be Adagio. Not molto Gravissimo. (That's not even a real tempo marking)
6: No religious/pentecostal/gospel music hiding as background music. I recently got to the end of a massage, having used a borrowed CD to try it out. My client commented that the music had been really upsetting, since it brought to mind years of being forced to go to "Revivals" at his parents' church. Oy. I had no idea that music was anything but boring, cheezy Muzak (no, the CD case did not say anything about the origins of the melodies. I checked.).
7: Nothing with "surprise accents" or sudden percussion interludes. Many a comfy massage-trance has been broken by ill-advised use of high-hats, triangle rolls, pings of gongs hit with hard-tipped mallets, or random bird chirps. Which leads me to...
8: Crickets. GodDAMN, I hate the crickets. Does anybody really find that soothing? Even bird chirps can be intensely irritating. Anything that comes out of the blue, starts abruptly, and leaves you worrying about when the next occurrence will be is OUT.
9: This is a late add. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. Just yesterday, I was using a perfectly lovely ooohhhh-ahhhhhhh, bonggggggbonnnnngggggoooooohhhhhh pseudo-asian thing, when ALL OF A SUDDEN, it went all Haunted Mansion on me. These voices? Sounding like a bunch of ghosts who found some pot and got all stoned and were trying to go around scaring people at the local mall for kicks. It was truly bizarre. I assume it was synthesizers, since I cannot imagine any singers who would be willing to record themselves making such sounds. Unless they were also baked. Possible, I suppose.
As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. This is why I'm working towards creating, playing, and recording my own music.
At least I know that I won't use any frickin' crickets.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Afraid to Hurt Her Tattoos
I have no tattoos myself, nor do any of my family members, so basically, I have no idea how it feels to have one. I really have no desire for one due to my aversion to having stuff poked into my skin with needles, and because -- just nope. Don't want one.
This does not mean that I don't admire well-executed skin artwork on others, though.
I have been caught inspecting the arms and shoulders of people ahead of
me in the line at the grocery store, someone standing near me at a party, or sitting near me at a concert. Some of the artistry and composition is remarkable.
There is a client who comes for near-weekly massages, and she has spectacular tattoos on her lower- and mid-back. It's an underwater scene with anemones, seaweed, and a few sea creatures.
Week after week, she has a super tense, spasming muscle on one certain spot on her back, and her turtle's head is right on it. I have become fond of her turtle, because it's just gorgeous. I can't bring myself to really dig in to her poor turtle's head, so I find myself closing my eyes and working by feel so I don't worry that I'm hurting the little guy. Silly, no?
Also, I have named him Eduardo. Eduardo the Turtle.
This does not mean that I don't admire well-executed skin artwork on others, though.
I have been caught inspecting the arms and shoulders of people ahead of
me in the line at the grocery store, someone standing near me at a party, or sitting near me at a concert. Some of the artistry and composition is remarkable.
There is a client who comes for near-weekly massages, and she has spectacular tattoos on her lower- and mid-back. It's an underwater scene with anemones, seaweed, and a few sea creatures.
Week after week, she has a super tense, spasming muscle on one certain spot on her back, and her turtle's head is right on it. I have become fond of her turtle, because it's just gorgeous. I can't bring myself to really dig in to her poor turtle's head, so I find myself closing my eyes and working by feel so I don't worry that I'm hurting the little guy. Silly, no?
Also, I have named him Eduardo. Eduardo the Turtle.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Tales From The (Massage) Table: Art Restoration
Today, I was giving a massage. (Shocking, I know)
I had given about seven yesterday, most of which had been 30 or 45 minute massages, and my first two today were also short. I marveled that I did not get bored after being asked, yet again, to "focus on my upper back, shoulders, and neck."
.jpg)
As I worked the kinks out of yet another set of rhomboid muscles, another levator scapula, I noticed that I was still entranced. "How is this possible? Why am I not bored to tears? I've had the same basic requests for two days running."
The first thought was Art Restoration. A person restoring the Old Masters to bright, beautiful glory would not get bored when asked to clean another Rembrandt, another Degas.
If they were asked to stabilize the pages on a Book of Hours from the Medieval age, would they complain when they got to the eighth page?
"Geez. ANOTHER illuminated manuscript. Le sigh."
No. Of course not. Having the ability, the training, the talent to touch something of great value, significance, and beauty with your own hands and your tools and restore it? It never gets old.
These beautiful, imperfect, aching people... works of art. Helping them return (at least to some degree) to bright, beautiful glory is my job. And it is entrancing.
I had given about seven yesterday, most of which had been 30 or 45 minute massages, and my first two today were also short. I marveled that I did not get bored after being asked, yet again, to "focus on my upper back, shoulders, and neck."
As I worked the kinks out of yet another set of rhomboid muscles, another levator scapula, I noticed that I was still entranced. "How is this possible? Why am I not bored to tears? I've had the same basic requests for two days running."
The first thought was Art Restoration. A person restoring the Old Masters to bright, beautiful glory would not get bored when asked to clean another Rembrandt, another Degas.
If they were asked to stabilize the pages on a Book of Hours from the Medieval age, would they complain when they got to the eighth page?
"Geez. ANOTHER illuminated manuscript. Le sigh."
No. Of course not. Having the ability, the training, the talent to touch something of great value, significance, and beauty with your own hands and your tools and restore it? It never gets old.
These beautiful, imperfect, aching people... works of art. Helping them return (at least to some degree) to bright, beautiful glory is my job. And it is entrancing.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Tales From The (Massage) Table: Doing Some Good In The World
Today, I did some good.
I worked on an old farmer (the same one), a woman with a chronic autoimmune disease and a spinal problem, someone recovering from a car accident, someone who cares for a sick relative, someone very nervous about selling her house that day, a person who had nothing good to say about herself, and cared for a care-giver.
Possibly I made them all feel better. They certainly said they felt better. I relaxed the tense, valued the feeling-unvalued, comforted the hurt, cared for the exhausted, and loosened the tight.
And all it took was my hands. And my heart.
I worked on an old farmer (the same one), a woman with a chronic autoimmune disease and a spinal problem, someone recovering from a car accident, someone who cares for a sick relative, someone very nervous about selling her house that day, a person who had nothing good to say about herself, and cared for a care-giver.
Possibly I made them all feel better. They certainly said they felt better. I relaxed the tense, valued the feeling-unvalued, comforted the hurt, cared for the exhausted, and loosened the tight.
And all it took was my hands. And my heart.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Being A Non-Flutey Flutist Makes Me Happy
I'm a flutist, but have had the good fortune to hear from many of my colleagues that I "don't seem like a flutist." By this, they mean that I'm not an utter pain in the ass.
Anyone who has been in middle school or high school band knows what I'm talking about. The flute players are the competitive back-biters. The rumor starters. The bitches. Yes, there. I said it.
Why is this? Don't know. It doesn't matter to me WHY it happens -- it just does. Just like trumpet players are arrogant, tuba players are funny and euphonium players will never get a job, it's a fact. I have indulged in the Flute Player Syndrome (FPS) while in junior high and high school, I had my comeuppance in undergrad, and even more so in grad school. It wasn't fun.
I finally learned that in order to be a person MYSELF that I could stand to be around, I had to get off of it. I needed to develop some tact, some empathy, and a whole lot of modesty. There's ALWAYS going to be a better flutist. And she's probably going to be younger, thinner, and have better clothes. Again, fact.
Know what I found out? It's more fun to be the nice flute player, as long as you are also a kick BUTT flutist. People like playing with nice musicians. People like to hire them!
However, sadly, it's humbling to do this. I simply had to give up trying to prove that I was the BEST EVER. I just had to act like I am the most awesome KATE around. Here's the thing -- if I get around another flutist (other musicians too, but mostly flutists) who is still deep in the snotty-attitude thing, my antennae go up and it's HARD to resist the pull. I want to name-drop, to brag, to talk about all my orchestra jobs, my degrees, my auditions.
I KNOW! It's wretched. I have to make a conscious choice to NOT jump into that pit. It's a deep, DEEP pit. Lots of people are in there, too. They are the ones who warm up on "Daphnis and Chloe" when you're getting ready for some community performance. They're the ones who hear YOU playing your solo that you're going to do on tonight's concert and THEY start playing it too. Ugh. You know the type. That's the mythical "flutist from Juilliard who bent the keys on her competitor's flute the minute before the audition." I doubt it's ever happened, but if it did, it was a flute player.
Whenever I start out in a new location, I have to remember which flute player I want to be. Do I want to be the snotty, rude, entitled, name-dropper? Or do I want to be the mature, elegant yet fun, educated and comfortable with herself lady? It's tough to go with #2 sometimes. It's so deeply satisfying to rip somebody a new one when they're begging for it. ("You think YOU'RE hot? I did masterclasses with GALWAY,bitch missy!" "I gave Jeanne Baxtresser rides to the airport! She told me she liked my purse!")
I have run into a few flutists in each and every location who fall into the FPS category. Oh, they are SO easy to spot.
One of their first questions is always -- without fail -- "What kind of flute do you play?"
Gag. Hint, people: If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know. Most of us can tell by looking, and really? It's rarely polite to ask outright, because it implies that their sound comes from the instrument. Please. There are ways of finding out. First think of it this way: Do you know her/him well enough to ask what brand of underwear they like or what dentist they use? No?
Probably should mind your own business then.
 |
| Good god. Do you see this? A KITTEN, a FLUTE (put together incorrectly, natch), A ROSE, BALLET SLIPPERS *AND* a WHITE PIANO. It's the grand slam of preciousness. |
Anyone who has been in middle school or high school band knows what I'm talking about. The flute players are the competitive back-biters. The rumor starters. The bitches. Yes, there. I said it.
Why is this? Don't know. It doesn't matter to me WHY it happens -- it just does. Just like trumpet players are arrogant, tuba players are funny and euphonium players will never get a job, it's a fact. I have indulged in the Flute Player Syndrome (FPS) while in junior high and high school, I had my comeuppance in undergrad, and even more so in grad school. It wasn't fun.
I finally learned that in order to be a person MYSELF that I could stand to be around, I had to get off of it. I needed to develop some tact, some empathy, and a whole lot of modesty. There's ALWAYS going to be a better flutist. And she's probably going to be younger, thinner, and have better clothes. Again, fact.
Know what I found out? It's more fun to be the nice flute player, as long as you are also a kick BUTT flutist. People like playing with nice musicians. People like to hire them!
However, sadly, it's humbling to do this. I simply had to give up trying to prove that I was the BEST EVER. I just had to act like I am the most awesome KATE around. Here's the thing -- if I get around another flutist (other musicians too, but mostly flutists) who is still deep in the snotty-attitude thing, my antennae go up and it's HARD to resist the pull. I want to name-drop, to brag, to talk about all my orchestra jobs, my degrees, my auditions.
I KNOW! It's wretched. I have to make a conscious choice to NOT jump into that pit. It's a deep, DEEP pit. Lots of people are in there, too. They are the ones who warm up on "Daphnis and Chloe" when you're getting ready for some community performance. They're the ones who hear YOU playing your solo that you're going to do on tonight's concert and THEY start playing it too. Ugh. You know the type. That's the mythical "flutist from Juilliard who bent the keys on her competitor's flute the minute before the audition." I doubt it's ever happened, but if it did, it was a flute player.
Whenever I start out in a new location, I have to remember which flute player I want to be. Do I want to be the snotty, rude, entitled, name-dropper? Or do I want to be the mature, elegant yet fun, educated and comfortable with herself lady? It's tough to go with #2 sometimes. It's so deeply satisfying to rip somebody a new one when they're begging for it. ("You think YOU'RE hot? I did masterclasses with GALWAY,
I have run into a few flutists in each and every location who fall into the FPS category. Oh, they are SO easy to spot.
One of their first questions is always -- without fail -- "What kind of flute do you play?"
Gag. Hint, people: If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know. Most of us can tell by looking, and really? It's rarely polite to ask outright, because it implies that their sound comes from the instrument. Please. There are ways of finding out. First think of it this way: Do you know her/him well enough to ask what brand of underwear they like or what dentist they use? No?
Probably should mind your own business then.
Introvert Desperation in a Nutshell.
Remember how I told you I was an outgoing introvert? Here's proof.
When I was in the throes of the "don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't ask me things," I had to cancel our newspaper subscription. That was something that had been planned long before my mood, so it wasn't a reaction or anything.
I was in a rather "being pecked to death by baby ducks" kind of mood, and clearly didn't much want to chat.
I made the call, getting more and more irritated by the automated, "Say 'not getting newspaper,' 'vacation service,' or 'cancel service,' thing.
"Cancel service," sez I.
"I'm sorry. I didn't quite get that. Please say 'not getting newspaper,' 'vaca...'"
"CAAAANCELLLL SERRRRVICE!"
"So, you say your newspaper is in bad condition when you get it. Please specify 'covered in mud,' 'ripped,' 'missing sections,' or 'other.'"
"CAAAAAANCELLLLLL SSERRRRRVICCCCE!!"
"I didn't quite get that."
"CUUUSTOMERRRRR SERRRRRRVIIIICE?!"
"So, you want to transfer delivery to a new address?"
"OH MY GOD JUST GET ME A HUMAN!"
"Transferring"
After a few half-hearted bars of "Sweet Caroline," the call was answered chirpily by "Marianne." I informed her of my desire to cancel service.
She (undoubtedly in a call center in northern Oklahoma or someplace) asked me why I was choosing to discontinue service.
I replied, "I don't feel like telling you."
She paused. She said that the newspapers like to know why people stop service, so they can improve for the future.
I replied, "I'm sure they do. Still not telling."
The pregnant pause there was well worth the awkwardness.
"....Um. Ok. Well, then. Ahhhh, so... canceling. Have a good day!"
When I was in the throes of the "don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't ask me things," I had to cancel our newspaper subscription. That was something that had been planned long before my mood, so it wasn't a reaction or anything.
I was in a rather "being pecked to death by baby ducks" kind of mood, and clearly didn't much want to chat.
I made the call, getting more and more irritated by the automated, "Say 'not getting newspaper,' 'vacation service,' or 'cancel service,' thing.
"Cancel service," sez I.
"I'm sorry. I didn't quite get that. Please say 'not getting newspaper,' 'vaca...'"
"CAAAANCELLLL SERRRRVICE!"
"So, you say your newspaper is in bad condition when you get it. Please specify 'covered in mud,' 'ripped,' 'missing sections,' or 'other.'"
"CAAAAAANCELLLLLL SSERRRRRVICCCCE!!"
"I didn't quite get that."
"CUUUSTOMERRRRR SERRRRRRVIIIICE?!"
"So, you want to transfer delivery to a new address?"
"OH MY GOD JUST GET ME A HUMAN!"
"Transferring"
After a few half-hearted bars of "Sweet Caroline," the call was answered chirpily by "Marianne." I informed her of my desire to cancel service.
She (undoubtedly in a call center in northern Oklahoma or someplace) asked me why I was choosing to discontinue service.
I replied, "I don't feel like telling you."
She paused. She said that the newspapers like to know why people stop service, so they can improve for the future.
I replied, "I'm sure they do. Still not telling."
The pregnant pause there was well worth the awkwardness.
"....Um. Ok. Well, then. Ahhhh, so... canceling. Have a good day!"
ME? An Introvert? Well, drat.
I'm a person who loves a party, loves to be out in front, loves to perform and interact and sparkle.
Naturally, I assumed I was an extrovert. I'm the one who sees the person standing alone at the gathering and goes up and starts a conversation, and grabs a few other people to join us, and then suddenly, we're the loudest corner in the place.
Introvert?
A few days ago, I had a meeting with someone I see periodically to help keep my perspective in line with reality. We'll call her Julie (as that is her name).
I was describing a recent weekend in which I had been surrounded by those I liked and loved, and they were all very happy and having fun, and they Wanted Me To Have Fun along with them. Leading up to that weekend, I'd been working, teaching, massaging, "being there" for friends, spending free time preparing for an interview, and such. No sooner had I gotten home from work a few days in a row, then I would go out to Some Fun Event. By the second or third of such a day, I started feeling kind of nuts. Kind of desperate. I wanted to go hide in a hole. I didn't want to be touched, didn't want to be talked to, to be asked, to be needed or even wanted. I tried standing up and saying that I really needed some time off, and I was reminded that I was "supposed" to enjoy doing fun things, and maybe I just needed to get out and do them, and then I'd be fine. Maybe I was just a bit tired.
So I went. I put on the brave happy Let Us Have FUN! face. And after a bit, I did have fun. I put aside my need for a cave, and rose above and threw myself into the spirit of the day(s). It was fine.
But.
When all was over, I got home and sat down, and was covered in a glaze of "leave me the heck alone or I'm gonna shiv you" that wouldn't go away. It lasted for several days, and for the most part, I was able to cover it up and act fairly normal. I smiled and was gentle and caring to my kids (mostly), to my students, to my clients. I said the right words, I made my hands do the right things so that people would feel nurtured. But each time I tried to relax by myself, I'd just kind of sit and hold my elbows to my sides and make myself be very small and still. I didn't even want my dogs to touch me. I didn't want the sun to shine on me. Finally, I just went to bed and napped each time this hit me. I napped quite a lot for a couple of days.
So I went to see Julie, to see if she could help me sort it out.
She started smiling, and I was all, "WHAT? This is FUNNY?" And she shook her head. "You're an outgoing introvert."
Huh? That's a thing?
Apparently, when a person loves to be involved, to be in the center of things, but then needs some alone time to recharge, that's being an introvert who is outgoing.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
She asked, "When you're at a party or something, and it's crazy and fun, but then you walk outside for some air and some space, does the alone-ness feel good and recharging, or does it feel like a let down?"
I acknowledged that it felt good and recharging. "I'm great company for myself!"
I figured everybody felt that way.
Apparently that was incorrect.
So, who'd have thought. I'm an introvert.
Naturally, I assumed I was an extrovert. I'm the one who sees the person standing alone at the gathering and goes up and starts a conversation, and grabs a few other people to join us, and then suddenly, we're the loudest corner in the place.
Introvert?
A few days ago, I had a meeting with someone I see periodically to help keep my perspective in line with reality. We'll call her Julie (as that is her name).
I was describing a recent weekend in which I had been surrounded by those I liked and loved, and they were all very happy and having fun, and they Wanted Me To Have Fun along with them. Leading up to that weekend, I'd been working, teaching, massaging, "being there" for friends, spending free time preparing for an interview, and such. No sooner had I gotten home from work a few days in a row, then I would go out to Some Fun Event. By the second or third of such a day, I started feeling kind of nuts. Kind of desperate. I wanted to go hide in a hole. I didn't want to be touched, didn't want to be talked to, to be asked, to be needed or even wanted. I tried standing up and saying that I really needed some time off, and I was reminded that I was "supposed" to enjoy doing fun things, and maybe I just needed to get out and do them, and then I'd be fine. Maybe I was just a bit tired.
So I went. I put on the brave happy Let Us Have FUN! face. And after a bit, I did have fun. I put aside my need for a cave, and rose above and threw myself into the spirit of the day(s). It was fine.
But.
When all was over, I got home and sat down, and was covered in a glaze of "leave me the heck alone or I'm gonna shiv you" that wouldn't go away. It lasted for several days, and for the most part, I was able to cover it up and act fairly normal. I smiled and was gentle and caring to my kids (mostly), to my students, to my clients. I said the right words, I made my hands do the right things so that people would feel nurtured. But each time I tried to relax by myself, I'd just kind of sit and hold my elbows to my sides and make myself be very small and still. I didn't even want my dogs to touch me. I didn't want the sun to shine on me. Finally, I just went to bed and napped each time this hit me. I napped quite a lot for a couple of days.
So I went to see Julie, to see if she could help me sort it out.
She started smiling, and I was all, "WHAT? This is FUNNY?" And she shook her head. "You're an outgoing introvert."
Huh? That's a thing?
Apparently, when a person loves to be involved, to be in the center of things, but then needs some alone time to recharge, that's being an introvert who is outgoing.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
She asked, "When you're at a party or something, and it's crazy and fun, but then you walk outside for some air and some space, does the alone-ness feel good and recharging, or does it feel like a let down?"
I acknowledged that it felt good and recharging. "I'm great company for myself!"
I figured everybody felt that way.
Apparently that was incorrect.
So, who'd have thought. I'm an introvert.
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Farmer
(Taken from a facebook post)
Recently, I massaged a retired farmer. Cows. He raised cows. He loved it!
He was in because he had some pain and tension in his shoulders and upper back. He tells me this is because of his 'retirement job.' He apparently delivers 55-gallon drums of oil to other farmers. He loads them onto his pickup, straps them in, and then unloads them. And he doesn't like to work with helpers, because "they always seem to get hurt or squashed."
So here he is, rolling these ginormous drums up onto a truck. And then he started telling me about his GREAT GRAND babies. seven of them, all under two years old. He loves holding them, loving on their tiny little hands, their soft cheeks, their round bellies. Then I thought for a moment, and asked , "How old ARE you?"
"Oh, around 78."
He's 78. Loading oil drums because he wants to do something he believes in. He likes this oil company. They had been the one he used for years and years on his farm, and he knows they do right by their customers.
And he holds and cuddles and strokes his great grand babies. And lives deep in the country "where, in summer, you can't even see the house because of all the green, green trees." His hands were so rough, so hard, so callused. I wonder how he can even feel the skin on these babies. But he does. Oh, he does. Maybe with his heart, but he feels them.
Recently, I massaged a retired farmer. Cows. He raised cows. He loved it!
He was in because he had some pain and tension in his shoulders and upper back. He tells me this is because of his 'retirement job.' He apparently delivers 55-gallon drums of oil to other farmers. He loads them onto his pickup, straps them in, and then unloads them. And he doesn't like to work with helpers, because "they always seem to get hurt or squashed."
So here he is, rolling these ginormous drums up onto a truck. And then he started telling me about his GREAT GRAND babies. seven of them, all under two years old. He loves holding them, loving on their tiny little hands, their soft cheeks, their round bellies. Then I thought for a moment, and asked , "How old ARE you?"
"Oh, around 78."
He's 78. Loading oil drums because he wants to do something he believes in. He likes this oil company. They had been the one he used for years and years on his farm, and he knows they do right by their customers.
And he holds and cuddles and strokes his great grand babies. And lives deep in the country "where, in summer, you can't even see the house because of all the green, green trees." His hands were so rough, so hard, so callused. I wonder how he can even feel the skin on these babies. But he does. Oh, he does. Maybe with his heart, but he feels them.
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Alopecia
So, I've been a working massage therapist since about mid-August (about 10 weeks), and I've enjoyed getting to know -- to feel -- so many different types of bodies, so many types of skin, hair, bones, and energies.
There is a disorder called Alopecia. It is a condition that causes hair loss, sometimes all over a person's body, sometimes in small patches. There are lots of possible causes, and sometimes it's permanent, sometimes fleeting.
However
To feel the skin of a person with this condition is heavenly.
I'm fully aware that losing any of one's hair can be stressful, sad, difficult, and angering. I am not in any way trying to dismiss or diminish the reality of those feelings. But to me, it's better than stroking a baby's skin. Babies feel fragile. Even their skin feels fragile and delicate; kind of loose, and you can feel the surface layer separately from the underlying chub. With folks with alopecia, their skin is ... how to describe? The word that comes to mind is "rich." It is velvety, but deeper than that. If you had a piece of very thick-napped velvet and held it in a bowl of water, so it was smooth and glidey and just a bit resistant, that might be it.
And instead of that super fragile feeling you get from baby skin, it's strong. So strong and resilient. Not porous, not spongy, not careful. To me, it's the way skin would feel if somehow science in about 200 years figured out how to make skin strong and injury-proof, but still sensitive to touch.
To all my clients (past, present, hopefully future), I enjoy and respect your skin. I hope you do too.
There is a disorder called Alopecia. It is a condition that causes hair loss, sometimes all over a person's body, sometimes in small patches. There are lots of possible causes, and sometimes it's permanent, sometimes fleeting.
However
To feel the skin of a person with this condition is heavenly.
I'm fully aware that losing any of one's hair can be stressful, sad, difficult, and angering. I am not in any way trying to dismiss or diminish the reality of those feelings. But to me, it's better than stroking a baby's skin. Babies feel fragile. Even their skin feels fragile and delicate; kind of loose, and you can feel the surface layer separately from the underlying chub. With folks with alopecia, their skin is ... how to describe? The word that comes to mind is "rich." It is velvety, but deeper than that. If you had a piece of very thick-napped velvet and held it in a bowl of water, so it was smooth and glidey and just a bit resistant, that might be it.
And instead of that super fragile feeling you get from baby skin, it's strong. So strong and resilient. Not porous, not spongy, not careful. To me, it's the way skin would feel if somehow science in about 200 years figured out how to make skin strong and injury-proof, but still sensitive to touch.
To all my clients (past, present, hopefully future), I enjoy and respect your skin. I hope you do too.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Massage School: The first day
I'm thinking back to the first day of hands-on class, and it's like being sentimental about how you viewed life when you were a freshman in high school. Everything seemed so scary and exciting and new, and vitally IMPORTANT.
We all arrived, milling nervously around the closed-up classroom's door. I checked to be sure I remembered my two twin-sized sheets (hoping that they were a cool enough pattern, but not boring -- I had pondered bringing my son's Clone Wars/Star Wars sheets, but ended up bringing the Hello Kitty ones instead), my brand-spankin' new lotion bottle and black snap-buckle lotion holster, still in its crinkly plastic wrapper.
I looked around, wondering who would be my first "person." Would it be the tall, lanky young guy with shoulder-length hair? Or the tiny goth girl? Or the older-looking woman?
One member of our class seemed very self-assured and a bit (just a *teeny* bit) full of himself, having taken the "massage for non-majors" class already, and he was telling us all about his holster that had TWO holders, so he could have lotion on each side, OR even maybe hand sanitizer in one. I was simultaneously intimidated and irritated.
Finally, the door opened, and our instructor, a 70-something gray-haired Irish-looking man smiled and waved us in. He was dressed in khakis and a red polo shirt. Little did I know that he had an entire closet devoted to khakis and red polos.
He had us all plunk down our bags and "circle up," each grabbing either a grey plastic chair or a padded rolling stool, and forming an elongated oval. He welcomed us, introduced himself (a retired physician and longtime massage therapist), and told us to relax, close our eyes, breathe, and "follow the sound of the bell."
With that, he held out a bell (the kind you imagine an old schoolmarm would call kids with), and bonged it once.
I closed my eyes and tried to meditate the way a Massage Therapist would. I couldn't. I kept shifting in my seat, peeking out through my eyelashes, trying trying trying. Finally, something shifted inside, and I could almost taste the air. It got thick and warm and palpable. I breathed in, savoring this new sensation across my tongue, in my mouth, my lungs. I sensed the people around me, and noticed I was rocking minutely, forward and back. Not enough that anyone else would see, but rather as though to a silent rhythm.
After a few minutes of this, I heard a light gentle bong as he rang the bell again. We opened our eyes and sheepishly smiled and looked around. It was time to do it. Time for our first experience touching someone else. Eeep.
Our instructor (J) told us to choose a partner, and that for each class we'd choose someone else. I looked wildly around for someone who didn't scare me, and I saw a very gentle-looking girl next to me. "Want to work with me?"
She smiled and nodded.
Today, J informed us, we would not need our lotions, and we would not get undressed. Today was just an experience of being in someone else's space in a therapeutic way. We were to simply sit on our stools with the other person on the table (with sheets. NEVER on a bare table), and touch them. Hold our hands on their shoulders, their mid-back, their head. Just sit and close our eyes and experience whatever happened.
He turned off the overhead lights while we scrambled around, putting sheets on the tables, turning on the "side lights," and awkwardly, each pair chose who would be on the table first. My partner climbed on the table, and lay down, face down, face in the u-shaped cradle.
J reminded us to put bolster pillows under our "client's" feet to keep their ankles from hyperextending, and told us to always slide the bolster under the sheet. Never ever let a client's skin touch bare vinyl.
My partner, A, lay peacefully, face down. We were instructed to lay our hands on the upper back, and simply feel.
OK. This is it. I sat on my stool, took a deep breath, extended my hands over her, and gently lowered them to her back. I closed my eyes.
Emotions washed over me. My mother-instinct was making itself be known, and I had to fight the urge to stroke her hair and kiss her head, because that's what I do with my kids. After that initial reaction passed, I began to feel with my hands. I noticed the texture of her shirt, the heat of her skin, the movement of her breath. Unconsciously, I began to breathe with her.
My hands began to tingle with awareness. Literally. I started to feel a pulse similar to the rocking I felt during our opening meditation. I wondered if it was her pulse I was feeling, or mine, or something else. The tingling that began on the skin of the palms of my hands sank further in, moving into my muscles, then up into my wrists and forearms. I noticed that I had opened my mouth a bit and was breathing through my mouth, the air palpable on my tongue. Heavy. Comfortable. Warm.
Then J told us to mentally say goodbye to the back before we moved our hands. I felt as though a magnet held my hands there, and as I visualized myself detaching from the magnet, I felt the pull release me. Still in the thickened air, I moved to her head, which was the next spot we were supposed to hold.
Again, I poised my hands over her, preparing. My palms tingled before I even touched her hair, and again the magnetic feeling. I followed the pull, and my hands sank onto her hair. Once again, I had to fight the urge to "mother her," so I tried to let that need pass through me. This time, the pulsation was much less, but there was much more sensation of a solid connection. I had the image of a barbell, my hands each being the weight on the ends, and the magnetic pull being the bar between them. Soon, I felt myself gently rocking (internally? externally? I couldn't tell) to some unseen rhythm.
Minutes passed, and I floated on my sensations in the near-darkness.
Finally, it was time to switch partners.
[more later]
We all arrived, milling nervously around the closed-up classroom's door. I checked to be sure I remembered my two twin-sized sheets (hoping that they were a cool enough pattern, but not boring -- I had pondered bringing my son's Clone Wars/Star Wars sheets, but ended up bringing the Hello Kitty ones instead), my brand-spankin' new lotion bottle and black snap-buckle lotion holster, still in its crinkly plastic wrapper.
I looked around, wondering who would be my first "person." Would it be the tall, lanky young guy with shoulder-length hair? Or the tiny goth girl? Or the older-looking woman?
One member of our class seemed very self-assured and a bit (just a *teeny* bit) full of himself, having taken the "massage for non-majors" class already, and he was telling us all about his holster that had TWO holders, so he could have lotion on each side, OR even maybe hand sanitizer in one. I was simultaneously intimidated and irritated.
Finally, the door opened, and our instructor, a 70-something gray-haired Irish-looking man smiled and waved us in. He was dressed in khakis and a red polo shirt. Little did I know that he had an entire closet devoted to khakis and red polos.
He had us all plunk down our bags and "circle up," each grabbing either a grey plastic chair or a padded rolling stool, and forming an elongated oval. He welcomed us, introduced himself (a retired physician and longtime massage therapist), and told us to relax, close our eyes, breathe, and "follow the sound of the bell."
With that, he held out a bell (the kind you imagine an old schoolmarm would call kids with), and bonged it once.
I closed my eyes and tried to meditate the way a Massage Therapist would. I couldn't. I kept shifting in my seat, peeking out through my eyelashes, trying trying trying. Finally, something shifted inside, and I could almost taste the air. It got thick and warm and palpable. I breathed in, savoring this new sensation across my tongue, in my mouth, my lungs. I sensed the people around me, and noticed I was rocking minutely, forward and back. Not enough that anyone else would see, but rather as though to a silent rhythm.
After a few minutes of this, I heard a light gentle bong as he rang the bell again. We opened our eyes and sheepishly smiled and looked around. It was time to do it. Time for our first experience touching someone else. Eeep.
Our instructor (J) told us to choose a partner, and that for each class we'd choose someone else. I looked wildly around for someone who didn't scare me, and I saw a very gentle-looking girl next to me. "Want to work with me?"
She smiled and nodded.
Today, J informed us, we would not need our lotions, and we would not get undressed. Today was just an experience of being in someone else's space in a therapeutic way. We were to simply sit on our stools with the other person on the table (with sheets. NEVER on a bare table), and touch them. Hold our hands on their shoulders, their mid-back, their head. Just sit and close our eyes and experience whatever happened.
He turned off the overhead lights while we scrambled around, putting sheets on the tables, turning on the "side lights," and awkwardly, each pair chose who would be on the table first. My partner climbed on the table, and lay down, face down, face in the u-shaped cradle.
J reminded us to put bolster pillows under our "client's" feet to keep their ankles from hyperextending, and told us to always slide the bolster under the sheet. Never ever let a client's skin touch bare vinyl.
My partner, A, lay peacefully, face down. We were instructed to lay our hands on the upper back, and simply feel.
OK. This is it. I sat on my stool, took a deep breath, extended my hands over her, and gently lowered them to her back. I closed my eyes.
Emotions washed over me. My mother-instinct was making itself be known, and I had to fight the urge to stroke her hair and kiss her head, because that's what I do with my kids. After that initial reaction passed, I began to feel with my hands. I noticed the texture of her shirt, the heat of her skin, the movement of her breath. Unconsciously, I began to breathe with her.
My hands began to tingle with awareness. Literally. I started to feel a pulse similar to the rocking I felt during our opening meditation. I wondered if it was her pulse I was feeling, or mine, or something else. The tingling that began on the skin of the palms of my hands sank further in, moving into my muscles, then up into my wrists and forearms. I noticed that I had opened my mouth a bit and was breathing through my mouth, the air palpable on my tongue. Heavy. Comfortable. Warm.
Then J told us to mentally say goodbye to the back before we moved our hands. I felt as though a magnet held my hands there, and as I visualized myself detaching from the magnet, I felt the pull release me. Still in the thickened air, I moved to her head, which was the next spot we were supposed to hold.
Again, I poised my hands over her, preparing. My palms tingled before I even touched her hair, and again the magnetic feeling. I followed the pull, and my hands sank onto her hair. Once again, I had to fight the urge to "mother her," so I tried to let that need pass through me. This time, the pulsation was much less, but there was much more sensation of a solid connection. I had the image of a barbell, my hands each being the weight on the ends, and the magnetic pull being the bar between them. Soon, I felt myself gently rocking (internally? externally? I couldn't tell) to some unseen rhythm.
Minutes passed, and I floated on my sensations in the near-darkness.
Finally, it was time to switch partners.
[more later]
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
You Think You're Too Fat? Too Bony? Too Hunched? Too... Something.... to Be Gorgeous?
[Taken from a Facebook post a few weeks ago]
I had a bit of a revelation today. I have been massaging older-ish women lately for some reason (by older-ish, I'm talking 65+). I'm willing to bet cash money that each of these women finds themselves too fat, or too lumpy, or scarred, or too many moles, or stretch-markish, or too skinny and bony, or to hunched or too spindly.
And each and every one of them was BEAUTIFUL to me.
Sacred.
These beautiful, fat, mole-ish, stretch-markish, skinny, hunched, spindly, scarred bodies were gorgeous.
Why?
Because with each of them, I could see the infant they once were. The young bride. The valued grandmother. The dark-of-the-night cry-because-it-hurts women.
I felt their beauty emanating from their skin, their muscles, bones, hair, fingernails. I heard it in their voices, their sighs, their laughter. I felt it in their inhalations and exhalations.
I massaged one woman's surgical scars, and she asked me why. I replied that I wanted her scars to know that they were loved too. They are a part of her beauty. She said that no one ever made her feel love toward her scars before.
THIS, my friends. This is why I love what I'm doing. This.
I had a bit of a revelation today. I have been massaging older-ish women lately for some reason (by older-ish, I'm talking 65+). I'm willing to bet cash money that each of these women finds themselves too fat, or too lumpy, or scarred, or too many moles, or stretch-markish, or too skinny and bony, or to hunched or too spindly.
And each and every one of them was BEAUTIFUL to me.
Sacred.
These beautiful, fat, mole-ish, stretch-markish, skinny, hunched, spindly, scarred bodies were gorgeous.
Why?
Because with each of them, I could see the infant they once were. The young bride. The valued grandmother. The dark-of-the-night cry-because-it-hurts women.
I felt their beauty emanating from their skin, their muscles, bones, hair, fingernails. I heard it in their voices, their sighs, their laughter. I felt it in their inhalations and exhalations.
I massaged one woman's surgical scars, and she asked me why. I replied that I wanted her scars to know that they were loved too. They are a part of her beauty. She said that no one ever made her feel love toward her scars before.
THIS, my friends. This is why I love what I'm doing. This.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Enya Poisoning
You're a massage client at the local massage school. You and 11 other lucky people fill out forms in the waiting room while you hear laughter, the rattling sound of curtains being pulled, and the clank of pens being thrown back in a coffee cup.
One by one, cheerful blue-shirted massage students open the sliding door and call out a name. The typical "I'm trying to remember to do a good greeting" greetings occur, with introductions and handshakes. Clients get escorted to their curtained-in cubicle, and the usual questions get asked. "Any changes since your last appointment? How's your diabetes doing? Any tingling in your feet or toes? No? Good. Any particular aches or pains you'd like me to work on today?"
And so it goes. The overhead lights are off, but the side lights are on, giving the cubicles a nice cozy feel. Some atmospheric "waves and birds" music is going on in the background.
The therapists step out into the aisle, closing curtains behind them, as the clients undress and get on the tables, covering up with the white rented sheets. Laundry service is a wondrous thing, really.
When the clients call out, each therapist begins his or her session. Warm hands, deep and deliberate strokes, lotion, stretches. The clients drift off, if all goes well. After a while, the room is quiet. We hear the occasional murmur of a question being asked, an instruction given. We hear a rattle of a chair being pulled around, or a cough.
The "waves and birds" switches to to some "woooooOOOOoooooSAILAWAYSAILAWAYSAILAWAY" stuff. The therapists' hands stiffen for just a second. Just a wee pause. Then a stifled snicker. The room is suddenly awash in tiny sounds of amusement, annoyance, and resignation.
Another Enya album has come up on the rotation of background music. Another one. I swear, the instructor promised to never do this to us again. Oh for god's sake. Can't we EVER get through a session without that repetitive Irish woman?
The one with the guy on the panflute playing the Beatles is bad enough. And that one that's trying to be Native American? It's synthesized.
But really? Enya??
Please sail the hell away.
One by one, cheerful blue-shirted massage students open the sliding door and call out a name. The typical "I'm trying to remember to do a good greeting" greetings occur, with introductions and handshakes. Clients get escorted to their curtained-in cubicle, and the usual questions get asked. "Any changes since your last appointment? How's your diabetes doing? Any tingling in your feet or toes? No? Good. Any particular aches or pains you'd like me to work on today?"
And so it goes. The overhead lights are off, but the side lights are on, giving the cubicles a nice cozy feel. Some atmospheric "waves and birds" music is going on in the background.
The therapists step out into the aisle, closing curtains behind them, as the clients undress and get on the tables, covering up with the white rented sheets. Laundry service is a wondrous thing, really.
When the clients call out, each therapist begins his or her session. Warm hands, deep and deliberate strokes, lotion, stretches. The clients drift off, if all goes well. After a while, the room is quiet. We hear the occasional murmur of a question being asked, an instruction given. We hear a rattle of a chair being pulled around, or a cough.
The "waves and birds" switches to to some "woooooOOOOoooooSAILAWAYSAILAWAYSAILAWAY" stuff. The therapists' hands stiffen for just a second. Just a wee pause. Then a stifled snicker. The room is suddenly awash in tiny sounds of amusement, annoyance, and resignation.
Another Enya album has come up on the rotation of background music. Another one. I swear, the instructor promised to never do this to us again. Oh for god's sake. Can't we EVER get through a session without that repetitive Irish woman?
The one with the guy on the panflute playing the Beatles is bad enough. And that one that's trying to be Native American? It's synthesized.
But really? Enya??
Please sail the hell away.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Peering Out Cautiously
Hello?
It's me again. I figured you might wonder what in the heck happened over here. No, I'm not dead.
I'm a MASSAGE THERAPIST! Almost all licensed and everything. So far, I'm 'certificated' (I got my certificate from finishing my program) AND 'certified' (meaning that I passed the National Exam, and so, have been certified). I am not yet licensed because ... I'm lazy? I need to get fingerprinted/background checked, and then I need to submit paperwork. Gah. I hates paperwork.
Would you like to hear what it's like to become a massage person? From the inside perspective? And what it's like for a family to deal with the mom/wife being a music teacher, but adding full-time school? And trying to figure out what to do NOW?
I think I might tell that story. It's kind of interesting, in a very "lavender-scented lotion and Enya-background-music" kind of way. By the way, I suspect there is such a thing as Enya poisoning. My little safety tip to you.
It's me again. I figured you might wonder what in the heck happened over here. No, I'm not dead.
I'm a MASSAGE THERAPIST! Almost all licensed and everything. So far, I'm 'certificated' (I got my certificate from finishing my program) AND 'certified' (meaning that I passed the National Exam, and so, have been certified). I am not yet licensed because ... I'm lazy? I need to get fingerprinted/background checked, and then I need to submit paperwork. Gah. I hates paperwork.
Would you like to hear what it's like to become a massage person? From the inside perspective? And what it's like for a family to deal with the mom/wife being a music teacher, but adding full-time school? And trying to figure out what to do NOW?
I think I might tell that story. It's kind of interesting, in a very "lavender-scented lotion and Enya-background-music" kind of way. By the way, I suspect there is such a thing as Enya poisoning. My little safety tip to you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)