"What's on the top floor?" she asked, peering up the twisting wooden stairway.
The owner winced. "Nothing safe. Nothing good."
"Well, then," she whispered, already on the third stair.
At the top, she stood alone, looking around at gleaming plank floors, mostly bare of furniture. Wide windows, no curtains, The light streaming in had a foreign, rushing quality; she'd never seen anything like it.
"We're at the very top, you know. We're going very fast."
She jumped in surprise. She hadn't seen the man sitting quietly on a cushion in the alcove to her right.
"The top? Of what? The house?"
He smiled, knowing. "The world." Nodding toward the window, he sat back and waited.
She was grateful she'd put her hands on the window frame, because the sight of everything flying beneath her at unimaginable speed shook her; she crumpled to the floor.
"How? How is this possible? How can you just sit there?"
"Because we are all traveling unbelievably fast. Always. We're just the ones who can see, you and I. Try again."
More cautiously this time, she edged to the window.
She was in the front seat of the roller coaster. In the engine of the train. On the back of an eagle.
"That we are standing still, safely on the ground, is illusion. No one is. But most of the time, we don't know to look out the windows. Sit with me a while. Try to hold both these thoughts in your mind: safely sitting on a rug on the floor, and at the same time precariously flying through everything we've ever known."
She sat with the small man. He inched closer so his knee was touching hers. They both sat perfectly still, racing at top speed through the universe.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Tales From the (Massage) Table: "Doing" Love
No, it's not a typo.
I didn't mean "making love." I'm not that kind of blogger.
And I didn't mean "doing what I love."
I'm talking about what it feels to give a massage. I'm certainly not falling in love with my clients, or really even getting to know them enough to truly love them. Somehow, I feel that to love someone, I have to know them. But I am "doing love."
Recently, a return client came in (I've just seen her a few times over a year or so), and said that she just needed to chill the heck out. Stress! Frustration! Tension! She was frazzled.
You know that I grew up in a family of artists, right? So even though I'm a musician by trade (and, of course a massage therapist), I think in images often. As I stand outside my massage room, waiting to enter, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths and empty my mind of images, of words, and I stand with my palms facing the door, letting myself focus on the feeling of my own energy in my hands. After a few moments of this, sometimes I feel the skin on my face prickle a little, sometimes my tongue. I have no idea if it's real or my imagination, but it's become a tradition for me. Focus. Empty. Wait. Feel.
The moment I walked into the room, I could feel her zingy, frayed breath. I stood by her head and centered myself again. My palms warmed and felt sparkly, and as I began the massage, she sighed and settled in. Eyes closed, it felt like she was a black velvet jewel box. All I could feel on the outside was the fuzzy surface, but there was something inside.
Halfway through the session, I had her roll over so she was face-up, and I began luxuriating through the scalp and shoulder massage. I love this part, because by then, the client trusts me and can deeply relax. A thoroughly relaxed person is beautiful in the way no one can be when awake and alert. It's a pure beauty, a simple, glowing shine.
Working through her hair, I closed my eyes again, and and image began to form again. The jewel box was opening, and inside was a star. The star was shining through the cracks of the jewel box, and I felt it like sunshine on my face, warm and healing. Her skin was fizzing with life, and my hands rejoiced. Her hair was energized and springy. Her shoulders were pliable. She let out a long, gusty sigh and fell into sleep. I could feel it when it happened. The floating thoughts and worries and wonders and busybusybrain fell away, and there was just space and serenity and childlike contentment.
When I finished at her feet a half hour later, I spent a moment suspended between her energy and mine. I hovered my fingertips over the tips of her toes and breathed deeply, feeling the double current running through me. Silently, I asked her to release me to my own self, and thanked her for trusting me. As though a magnet had been turned away, my hands floated away, and I breathed again. Just me by myself, in that breath.
Flicking my fingers at the sky just in case there were lingering threads connecting us, I opened my eyes and whispered to her that it was time to rejoin the world. She smiled and sighed happily.
That, to me, is "doing love." It's finding my own spark, my own current, and touching another's with the intent of doing good, and then separating again, each better off than before.
I didn't mean "making love." I'm not that kind of blogger.
And I didn't mean "doing what I love."
I'm talking about what it feels to give a massage. I'm certainly not falling in love with my clients, or really even getting to know them enough to truly love them. Somehow, I feel that to love someone, I have to know them. But I am "doing love."
Recently, a return client came in (I've just seen her a few times over a year or so), and said that she just needed to chill the heck out. Stress! Frustration! Tension! She was frazzled.
You know that I grew up in a family of artists, right? So even though I'm a musician by trade (and, of course a massage therapist), I think in images often. As I stand outside my massage room, waiting to enter, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths and empty my mind of images, of words, and I stand with my palms facing the door, letting myself focus on the feeling of my own energy in my hands. After a few moments of this, sometimes I feel the skin on my face prickle a little, sometimes my tongue. I have no idea if it's real or my imagination, but it's become a tradition for me. Focus. Empty. Wait. Feel.
The moment I walked into the room, I could feel her zingy, frayed breath. I stood by her head and centered myself again. My palms warmed and felt sparkly, and as I began the massage, she sighed and settled in. Eyes closed, it felt like she was a black velvet jewel box. All I could feel on the outside was the fuzzy surface, but there was something inside.
Halfway through the session, I had her roll over so she was face-up, and I began luxuriating through the scalp and shoulder massage. I love this part, because by then, the client trusts me and can deeply relax. A thoroughly relaxed person is beautiful in the way no one can be when awake and alert. It's a pure beauty, a simple, glowing shine.
Working through her hair, I closed my eyes again, and and image began to form again. The jewel box was opening, and inside was a star. The star was shining through the cracks of the jewel box, and I felt it like sunshine on my face, warm and healing. Her skin was fizzing with life, and my hands rejoiced. Her hair was energized and springy. Her shoulders were pliable. She let out a long, gusty sigh and fell into sleep. I could feel it when it happened. The floating thoughts and worries and wonders and busybusybrain fell away, and there was just space and serenity and childlike contentment.
When I finished at her feet a half hour later, I spent a moment suspended between her energy and mine. I hovered my fingertips over the tips of her toes and breathed deeply, feeling the double current running through me. Silently, I asked her to release me to my own self, and thanked her for trusting me. As though a magnet had been turned away, my hands floated away, and I breathed again. Just me by myself, in that breath.
Flicking my fingers at the sky just in case there were lingering threads connecting us, I opened my eyes and whispered to her that it was time to rejoin the world. She smiled and sighed happily.
That, to me, is "doing love." It's finding my own spark, my own current, and touching another's with the intent of doing good, and then separating again, each better off than before.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Tales From the (Massage) Table: Doing The Work Of Angels
Recently, I met with a mentor massage therapist woman who is one of the most grounded individuals I've ever encountered. She lives a completely different life than I do, in that she does not have the same reference points as I do.
I have kids, and am a teacher to kids, so my words and actions are being watched by them (and their parents), and I try to keep things PG. She does not.
I'm into the modern world of TV, Netflix, cell phones, Facebook, blogging, etc. She does not even own a TV, and just recently figured out how to text. She's pretty bad at it.
She finds it easy to believe in many things that I can't yet bring myself to entertain, such as plant spirit healing, all kids of alternative and holistic therapies, lots of 'crunchy' hippie-ish stuff.
However difficult I find some of that stuff to believe, I can't dismiss the experiences I've had, and so I have to try to understand.
For instance, I've had the experience of being in a near-hypnosis state during a massage (giving one), and suddenly notice that I'm experiencing a thought or an emotion that was utterly out of the blue and not me-like at all, then the client will say or do something that reveals that the thought or emotion I had been feeling had been theirs. Was I just picking up subtle clues from their still, quiet body? How? I have no idea.
So, getting to the title of this post, I was recently working on a lovely woman who was a new client for me. She was holding lots and lots of tension in her upper back (which is typical for most folks), but as I worked and became more relaxed myself, I started thinking about children. Toddlers. And cold houses. And fear.
Then the client shifted and started talking. She is a social worker of some variety, and she works with families with children from birth to age 3, and one family in her care had recently revealed to her that they had lost the heat in their house, and the mother was afraid to tell people for fear they would take her children. So she was keeping them all in the living room around the fireplace, bundled in blankets.
This client had immediately begun to make phone calls, and within a day, they had their heat restored, had a social worker visit the house to make sure everything was ok with the kids, and they had been given vouchers for a local food pantry. But she was running that scenario over in her mind, being disturbed.
As I put hot stones onto her back, I found my mind repeating "you do the work of angels" to her (silently). She gradually relaxed enough that she fell asleep, and woke refreshed and relaxed and feeling cared-for.
=======
So, how do you explain that? Is it magic? Psycho...something? Telekewhatever? Does it matter? Maybe not, but this stuff weirds me out sometimes. And other times, it seems as normal as anything else in my everyday life.
What do you think, though?
I have kids, and am a teacher to kids, so my words and actions are being watched by them (and their parents), and I try to keep things PG. She does not.
I'm into the modern world of TV, Netflix, cell phones, Facebook, blogging, etc. She does not even own a TV, and just recently figured out how to text. She's pretty bad at it.
She finds it easy to believe in many things that I can't yet bring myself to entertain, such as plant spirit healing, all kids of alternative and holistic therapies, lots of 'crunchy' hippie-ish stuff.
However difficult I find some of that stuff to believe, I can't dismiss the experiences I've had, and so I have to try to understand.
For instance, I've had the experience of being in a near-hypnosis state during a massage (giving one), and suddenly notice that I'm experiencing a thought or an emotion that was utterly out of the blue and not me-like at all, then the client will say or do something that reveals that the thought or emotion I had been feeling had been theirs. Was I just picking up subtle clues from their still, quiet body? How? I have no idea.
So, getting to the title of this post, I was recently working on a lovely woman who was a new client for me. She was holding lots and lots of tension in her upper back (which is typical for most folks), but as I worked and became more relaxed myself, I started thinking about children. Toddlers. And cold houses. And fear.
Then the client shifted and started talking. She is a social worker of some variety, and she works with families with children from birth to age 3, and one family in her care had recently revealed to her that they had lost the heat in their house, and the mother was afraid to tell people for fear they would take her children. So she was keeping them all in the living room around the fireplace, bundled in blankets.
This client had immediately begun to make phone calls, and within a day, they had their heat restored, had a social worker visit the house to make sure everything was ok with the kids, and they had been given vouchers for a local food pantry. But she was running that scenario over in her mind, being disturbed.
As I put hot stones onto her back, I found my mind repeating "you do the work of angels" to her (silently). She gradually relaxed enough that she fell asleep, and woke refreshed and relaxed and feeling cared-for.
=======
So, how do you explain that? Is it magic? Psycho...something? Telekewhatever? Does it matter? Maybe not, but this stuff weirds me out sometimes. And other times, it seems as normal as anything else in my everyday life.
What do you think, though?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Making Kids Cry When They Do Well. It's a peculiar talent I have.
Today, I judged middle school Solo and Ensemble contest. This is a very different thing than judging High School (which I did last week), because some of these kids are absolute beginners, and even if they're not, they're on that cusp between childhood and adolescence. Emotions are volatile, feelings are tender, and parents are very protective. I had to give a couple of 3s (ratings go from 1 as best to 5 as ridiculously bad), but they understood why they earned those ratings. BUT... the two kids who CRIED were kids who got 1s.
One kid cried after I told her that her duet was the very first "All-1" performance of the day (there are several sub categories that we give scores to). They were beginners (flute and clarinet), best friends, and adorable. They were dressed alike, and they came into the room with absolute confidence. It was obvious they had rehearsed everything, including how they would set up the stands, how they'd tune, and how they'd stop and start the piece. It was more prepared than some of the adult performances I've seen.
They played two little pieces (I think one was from "Water Music," and the other was a little march). The pieces were in two different keys and time signatures, and they did each one perfectly. They communicated non-verbally with each other before, during, and after each piece.
But most significantly, they played with a depth of understanding of each other's parts, so when one made a misstep, the other quickly accommodated. I was floored.
I gave them comments verbally as well as written, and they were polite and receptive. After I'd released them, they waited in the hallway for their score, as they all do. This time, I wanted to deliver the score personally (I usually had the room assistant do that, since I was busy writing comments or preparing for the next entrant) because it was early afternoon, and they were the very first entry to have "Straight-A's" if you will.
I popped out into the hall and saw them clinging to each other's hands, with their parents hovering nervously nearby. "Girls, I wanted to let you know that you got a Gold Medal!" They jumped up and down and screeched and hugged, but I touched one lightly on the shoulder and continued, "Also, you were the very first entrant of the day -- and keep in mind, I've been judging new entries every 6 minutes since 8:00 this morning -- you're the first to get ALL 1's on the score sheet. This is significant, and I thought you'd enjoy the rest of your weekend if you knew that."
Surprisingly, the little blonde flute player's face crumpled and she buried her face in her mom's coat and sobbed. "What did I do? Is she ok?" I worried.
The mom laughed, "I think she's just a little overexcited," and patted the girl's head. The clarinet player girl came around and hugged her from the back, and laughed and teased her until she came up, rubbing tears off her very pink cheeks, and she looked shyly up at me and smiled a bit.
------------------------------
There was a young boy who was dressed stiffly in a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and very shiny shoes. He tuned very calmly, almost with bravado, to the piano.
Again, it was pretty clear that he was in his first or second year of playing, but he handled his solo with aplomb until the very end. About four measures from the end, he tripped up a little and got separated from the piano part for maybe 4 or 5 beats, but they got back together by the last measure.
As he played his final note, I saw his eyes fill with tears. He quickly turned away, laying his flute on a desk by his mom. I approached him, telling him to grab his flute because I'd like to help him with a few fingerings. He moaned to his mom, "But I screwed uuuuup!" He was shaking.
I told him that missing notes occasionally is common and no big deal, and I proceeded to tell him all the things I liked about his performance, hoping he'd pull it together and be able to improve a few things. He did, for the most part, and I was able to get him to acknowledge that many, if not most, parts of his piece were very good. I showed him a few alternate fingerings to simplify a few spots, and then congratulated him and released him.
I thought he'd be happy after that, but he began to cry -- sobbing cries -- and saying, "I can't believe it! It was bad! I got so upset!" I was busy writing my comments (which were almost all positive), and scored the sheet. he got a 1 (top score), because the small problem at the end did not come close to outweighing the good in the performance.
Since he wasn't letting his mom console him much, I decided to share a story with him.
"Several -- maybe many -- years ago, I was playing for a world-famous flutist at a very high-level flute class. We'd play a piece in front of the teacher and ALL of the students in the group, so at least 20 people. Well, as I played, I was getting overwhelmed by being near him, and having him paying close attention to me, and I started to shake. I kept it in control and kept playing, but my shaking became obvious to anyone looking at me, which was everybody. Bart (Barthold Kuijken, for you flutists out there) smiled at me when I finished and put his hand over his heart and walked to me. He beamed kindness at me and said, "That feeling you're having... it's because you are a human person who is aware that something special is happening. That's a good thing. If you don't feel that way, you're not paying attention. Sometimes, if we're not expecting it, it can feel like we're nervous or sick or scared, but it's really just humanness. So LET YOURSELF feel that. Realize that we all hope to -- need to have moments where we actually notice that something special is happening to us.
Next time, you'll be able to anticipate it, and it'll feel better. Someday, it will feel wonderful. And then, you will want to feel that way more and more."
So, I said to the boy, "You're just a human person, aware that something special happened, and you just didn't see it coming. Some kids shake, others cry, some throw up (and I'm glad you didn't go with that option), some laugh, some get chatty. Let yourself feel it right now. Because that way, next time you'll see it coming, and it'll feel better."
And guess what?
He felt better, and his mom was happy.
One kid cried after I told her that her duet was the very first "All-1" performance of the day (there are several sub categories that we give scores to). They were beginners (flute and clarinet), best friends, and adorable. They were dressed alike, and they came into the room with absolute confidence. It was obvious they had rehearsed everything, including how they would set up the stands, how they'd tune, and how they'd stop and start the piece. It was more prepared than some of the adult performances I've seen.
They played two little pieces (I think one was from "Water Music," and the other was a little march). The pieces were in two different keys and time signatures, and they did each one perfectly. They communicated non-verbally with each other before, during, and after each piece.
But most significantly, they played with a depth of understanding of each other's parts, so when one made a misstep, the other quickly accommodated. I was floored.
I gave them comments verbally as well as written, and they were polite and receptive. After I'd released them, they waited in the hallway for their score, as they all do. This time, I wanted to deliver the score personally (I usually had the room assistant do that, since I was busy writing comments or preparing for the next entrant) because it was early afternoon, and they were the very first entry to have "Straight-A's" if you will.
I popped out into the hall and saw them clinging to each other's hands, with their parents hovering nervously nearby. "Girls, I wanted to let you know that you got a Gold Medal!" They jumped up and down and screeched and hugged, but I touched one lightly on the shoulder and continued, "Also, you were the very first entrant of the day -- and keep in mind, I've been judging new entries every 6 minutes since 8:00 this morning -- you're the first to get ALL 1's on the score sheet. This is significant, and I thought you'd enjoy the rest of your weekend if you knew that."
Surprisingly, the little blonde flute player's face crumpled and she buried her face in her mom's coat and sobbed. "What did I do? Is she ok?" I worried.
The mom laughed, "I think she's just a little overexcited," and patted the girl's head. The clarinet player girl came around and hugged her from the back, and laughed and teased her until she came up, rubbing tears off her very pink cheeks, and she looked shyly up at me and smiled a bit.
------------------------------
There was a young boy who was dressed stiffly in a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and very shiny shoes. He tuned very calmly, almost with bravado, to the piano.
Again, it was pretty clear that he was in his first or second year of playing, but he handled his solo with aplomb until the very end. About four measures from the end, he tripped up a little and got separated from the piano part for maybe 4 or 5 beats, but they got back together by the last measure.
As he played his final note, I saw his eyes fill with tears. He quickly turned away, laying his flute on a desk by his mom. I approached him, telling him to grab his flute because I'd like to help him with a few fingerings. He moaned to his mom, "But I screwed uuuuup!" He was shaking.
I told him that missing notes occasionally is common and no big deal, and I proceeded to tell him all the things I liked about his performance, hoping he'd pull it together and be able to improve a few things. He did, for the most part, and I was able to get him to acknowledge that many, if not most, parts of his piece were very good. I showed him a few alternate fingerings to simplify a few spots, and then congratulated him and released him.
I thought he'd be happy after that, but he began to cry -- sobbing cries -- and saying, "I can't believe it! It was bad! I got so upset!" I was busy writing my comments (which were almost all positive), and scored the sheet. he got a 1 (top score), because the small problem at the end did not come close to outweighing the good in the performance.
Since he wasn't letting his mom console him much, I decided to share a story with him.
"Several -- maybe many -- years ago, I was playing for a world-famous flutist at a very high-level flute class. We'd play a piece in front of the teacher and ALL of the students in the group, so at least 20 people. Well, as I played, I was getting overwhelmed by being near him, and having him paying close attention to me, and I started to shake. I kept it in control and kept playing, but my shaking became obvious to anyone looking at me, which was everybody. Bart (Barthold Kuijken, for you flutists out there) smiled at me when I finished and put his hand over his heart and walked to me. He beamed kindness at me and said, "That feeling you're having... it's because you are a human person who is aware that something special is happening. That's a good thing. If you don't feel that way, you're not paying attention. Sometimes, if we're not expecting it, it can feel like we're nervous or sick or scared, but it's really just humanness. So LET YOURSELF feel that. Realize that we all hope to -- need to have moments where we actually notice that something special is happening to us.
Next time, you'll be able to anticipate it, and it'll feel better. Someday, it will feel wonderful. And then, you will want to feel that way more and more."
So, I said to the boy, "You're just a human person, aware that something special happened, and you just didn't see it coming. Some kids shake, others cry, some throw up (and I'm glad you didn't go with that option), some laugh, some get chatty. Let yourself feel it right now. Because that way, next time you'll see it coming, and it'll feel better."
And guess what?
He felt better, and his mom was happy.
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.
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."
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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.
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.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Best Burglary EVER
A few evenings ago, I picked up a few bags of groceries. As I came into the house, I thought of locking the car with the keyring fob thingy, but (inevitably) forgot. My hands were full. My thoughts were busy. Whoops.
The next morning, I was in the shower when I heard m husband stick his head into the bathroom and say, "Kate! I need you! Someone broke into the car!"
Oh. Crap.
I came out right away, wildly flailing the towel around, hurriedly drying off and dressing in yesterday's clothes. Hair still dripping, I dashed to the car.
"The door was open! The console lid was open, the glove box was open, and YOUR TEACHING BAG was unzipped and open!" He had his head in the car, looking things over.
Oh no. I have a wheelie little suitcase where I keep all my music and whatnot that I use when I teach flute lessons. Luckily I am paranoid, and never ever leave my instruments in a car.
As I looked through the car, I ... didn't notice anything missing. At all. Maybe some change from the little dish in the middle. Huh. Then I noticed that some of the contents of the glove box had been removed and placed on the passenger seat. The little manual, the registration, some CDs, a couple of pencils. I peeked into the glove box itself and saw a small envelope. The kind you get from the bank.
Full of money.
?
I pulled it out, mystified. Did the thief LEAVE A DONATION? I asked my husband, "Did you put this in the car?" He glanced over and then froze in mystified confusion. "What? No! What??" I looked into the envelope and pulled out $60 in tens and twenties. And a receipt. It was dated about 10 months ago, and was from our own account.
"OH! I remember! When we drove to Chicago, we stopped off at the credit union! I thought I lost that money. You took $40 out and put it in your wallet and handed the envelope to me to put in my purse. And then I never saw it again. And here it is."
By rifling through our junk, they uncovered our cash - AND DIDN'T SEE IT.
It was possibly the only burglary in which the "victims" make money.
I am mightily tempted to leave the other car unlocked some night. I'm missing a couple of pairs of earrings.
The next morning, I was in the shower when I heard m husband stick his head into the bathroom and say, "Kate! I need you! Someone broke into the car!"
Oh. Crap.
I came out right away, wildly flailing the towel around, hurriedly drying off and dressing in yesterday's clothes. Hair still dripping, I dashed to the car.
"The door was open! The console lid was open, the glove box was open, and YOUR TEACHING BAG was unzipped and open!" He had his head in the car, looking things over.
Oh no. I have a wheelie little suitcase where I keep all my music and whatnot that I use when I teach flute lessons. Luckily I am paranoid, and never ever leave my instruments in a car.
As I looked through the car, I ... didn't notice anything missing. At all. Maybe some change from the little dish in the middle. Huh. Then I noticed that some of the contents of the glove box had been removed and placed on the passenger seat. The little manual, the registration, some CDs, a couple of pencils. I peeked into the glove box itself and saw a small envelope. The kind you get from the bank.
Full of money.
?
I pulled it out, mystified. Did the thief LEAVE A DONATION? I asked my husband, "Did you put this in the car?" He glanced over and then froze in mystified confusion. "What? No! What??" I looked into the envelope and pulled out $60 in tens and twenties. And a receipt. It was dated about 10 months ago, and was from our own account.
"OH! I remember! When we drove to Chicago, we stopped off at the credit union! I thought I lost that money. You took $40 out and put it in your wallet and handed the envelope to me to put in my purse. And then I never saw it again. And here it is."
By rifling through our junk, they uncovered our cash - AND DIDN'T SEE IT.
It was possibly the only burglary in which the "victims" make money.
I am mightily tempted to leave the other car unlocked some night. I'm missing a couple of pairs of earrings.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Derfing With Mrs. G and Debra
The town is right near a place I used to go for flute lessons, Oberlin. My flute instructor, Michel Debost, lives in Elyria, which is just up the road a piece.
I found Debra's gallery right where she said it would be, across from the scenic railway station. And scenic it was!
The moment I came around the corner of the building, I saw this:
I love a town that gets handed pythons and makes pythonade.
Catching a quick snapshot of her handmade python was Debra, our hostess for the night, and owner of Elements Gallery.
 |
| She's pretty, isn't she? Oh, wait a second.... |
 | |||
| There she is! |
We introduced ourselves, and just as we were about to go inside, along came MRS G!
Debra etches her tiles. I'm sure that's not the right term, but she puts these incredibly complex, detailed patterns and things onto flat tiles (and other things too), and glazes them and puts colors on them and all that fancy awesome art stuff. And then they sell it.
 | |
| Debra explains her approach to art, running a gallery, and life. |
 | |
| Part of the back room of the gallery. That is one big roll of bubble wrap! |
 | |
| Dad and daughter working on some mugs. |
We were starting to get kind of hungry, so we walked over to The Seraglio, a shop/gallery owned by a totally sweet Turkish man named Muffit. Pronounced "Moooo-FIT." Not "moooo-FEET." I asked why the party was happening, I was told that Muffit and his lovely wife just wanted to have a party for the neighborhood artists, business owners, councilpeople, etc. I was so taken by all these wonderful folks.
 |
| One of THREE courtyards at La Seraglio |
 |
| another one |
Muffit made deeeelicious beef kabobs and chicken on the grill, there was fresh hummus, baba ganouj, pita, rice, cucumber/yogurt salad, cucumber/tomato/onion salad, and a wickedly awesome pasta with a very spicy garlic sauce. Wine flowed freely, and for dessert? HOMEMADE BAKLAVA. It was decadent to an extreme I'm not sure I've experienced before.
Sadly, I did not remember to take any photos inside, but apparently the building used to house a bookstore with an upstairs reading loft. The spiral staircase to the loft is enclosed by A TREE TRUNK. With a door. You open the door of the tree and walk up the spiral staircase inside the (faux) tree. It's so cool, and I can't believe I can't show you. Sigh.
There are such stories to tell you! I met a tall, gorgeous woman who not only was a Councilwoman, but makes Fairy Gardens!
I met an older man who owns a B&B by a waterfall with his wife. He is the oldest vegan I've ever met.
Then there was this one elderly woman everyone deferred to was sitting near us who wore an "I <3 Peninsula" pin on her ball cap. I found out later she was Peninsula's citizen of the year, and had been town librarian. She said that since Peninsula was an old canal town, they used to have mules that would get roped to the barges in the river and they'd tow the boats through the locks. Her grandfather had a barn which housed the mules. When she was a girl, she found a bunch of tiny little horseshoes, and thought they were for baby horses. Her grandfather then told her the stories of the mules that had once lived there.
It was an explosion of amazingness. Everybody had a story. Everybody sparkled (in a non-stupid-vampire way). There was music, laughter, hugs, food, drink, and more laughter.
Finally, Mrs. G was starting to wilt after a LONG day of driving (a long month, really), so we wended our way out. Debra rode in Mrs. G's car with her (her husband wanted to check the kiln, so he drove their car separately), and I followed along. Mrs. G is very law-abiding when it comes to driving.
We arrived at Debra's Palatial Country Estate a mere 15 minutes later. (Can't you hear the capitals?)
We were greeted by a flying pig (of which I also have no picture), and her three delightful dogs.
 |
| This is Lily, the dog that liked me. The others were not so sure. |
Her home was the home of artists. Sculpture, paintings, books, funky furniture, many mysterious doors, cool odds and ends. There was a beautiful mural on the stairway walls and ceiling, done by one of her daughters. One of my favorites was a door painted by a daughter.
Isn't that lovely?
We sat on the couch with the dog, chatting, laughing, pausing, pondering. We talked about kids, husbands, life, death, the Universe, books, art, education, wine, and Kitty Gigantica.
One thing I noticed about Mrs. G. that I didn't expect: her voice. Have you ever watched Sex and the City? You know Samantha, the sex-crazed one? If you've ever heard the actress speak (when she's not being Samantha), you'll marvel at her soft, gentle voice, as opposed to the pushy, aggressive, tough-girl voice on the show. With Mrs. G, it's kind of like that. Her online voice is so spunky and witty and edgy that her sweet, gentle voice was a real surprise. I've even heard her online videos, and in person? It's like her voice is made of that loopy, scrunchy yarn that some scarves are knitted from. It wraps around you ... like a cuddle from a favorite aunt. She was so fun, insightful, and open to new experiences.
Debra is a marvel. She's raised two daughters, homeschooled both, and is a prolific artist. She talked about "the art of business" and the beautiful community they have there. Oh, and she's wickedly funny.
I don't know what they thought of me, but I was pretty honored to be there with those two ladies.
We all went to bed (including the three dogs and all the chickens), dreaming out-in-the-woods dreams.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of her puppies clattering on the old wooden floors, and followed my nose to the coffee. My mug was one of their handmade ones, and Debra also made me "a glass o' pink," which was a smoothie (in a Vitamix blender, no less) made from strawberries, blueberries, banana, yogurt, and fresh pineapple. There were also muffins, but I wasn't quite ready for food.
Soon, it was time for Mrs. G to hit the road, so we gave hugs all around, and drove off (Stop Sign, LEFT, Stop Sign, RIGHT), and I drove home, my head full of new people, ideas, art, community, and stories.
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