I found a new massage therapist this week.
The timing was perfect, as are all of these discoveries when I open myself to seeing them. I was achy and sore, my hips were hurting and the miserable twinge in my left knee had begun to flare.
The knee is a pain I have known before. It flares when I feel powerless, as I seem to hold some kind of energy in an injury I incurred on the night of my 40th birthday party. It wasn't a fear of getting older, of course, but the dawning realization that I had no control over my world and was losing love.
I had tried to ignore the hip and knee pains, telling myself that I was just getting used to wearing heels all the time again. This body is different now. This body pushes back harder when I try to ignore it. This body begins to rob me of sleep.
Sleep is the delicate fulcrum on which my sanity balances. Mess with that and you get my attention quickly.
This massage therapist is not like my beloved Sandra in Montreal. He is a big guy, maybe 270 pounds. I believe he was a biker or may still be one. He has old tats and piercings. He may be the age of my father. Yet, he is good. He warns me that he applies pretty deep pressure and to tell him if I start to hurt.
Hah! You've got no idea what I can take, buddy.
His hands are very different, very big. Yet I still feel the tingle of energy leaping up when he begins. He works on my legs and knee first.
With Sandra, I could feel the energy moving from her hands into my skin. It was a direct transfer. James doesn't transfer as much energy in to me, as he does push my energy around. He knocks down barriers in my body, brushing them out of the way.
As always, I lay on the table listening to my inner reactions, breathing through any discomfort.
Once again, my grief surges through me. This fucking grief that I can't seem to shed surges back every time. My inability to understand why people that I love abandon me, or to adequately defend myself so that I am not in a place to need to understand never fails to push its way to the forefront. My anger at my feelings of dissatisfaction re-emerge, asking me what exactly am I looking for and do I really believe that anything better lies beyond the horizon?
After the massage is finished, he says to me: Your aura is dark.
Yes. I know.
The timing was perfect, as are all of these discoveries when I open myself to seeing them. I was achy and sore, my hips were hurting and the miserable twinge in my left knee had begun to flare.
The knee is a pain I have known before. It flares when I feel powerless, as I seem to hold some kind of energy in an injury I incurred on the night of my 40th birthday party. It wasn't a fear of getting older, of course, but the dawning realization that I had no control over my world and was losing love.
I had tried to ignore the hip and knee pains, telling myself that I was just getting used to wearing heels all the time again. This body is different now. This body pushes back harder when I try to ignore it. This body begins to rob me of sleep.
Sleep is the delicate fulcrum on which my sanity balances. Mess with that and you get my attention quickly.
This massage therapist is not like my beloved Sandra in Montreal. He is a big guy, maybe 270 pounds. I believe he was a biker or may still be one. He has old tats and piercings. He may be the age of my father. Yet, he is good. He warns me that he applies pretty deep pressure and to tell him if I start to hurt.
Hah! You've got no idea what I can take, buddy.
His hands are very different, very big. Yet I still feel the tingle of energy leaping up when he begins. He works on my legs and knee first.
With Sandra, I could feel the energy moving from her hands into my skin. It was a direct transfer. James doesn't transfer as much energy in to me, as he does push my energy around. He knocks down barriers in my body, brushing them out of the way.
As always, I lay on the table listening to my inner reactions, breathing through any discomfort.
Once again, my grief surges through me. This fucking grief that I can't seem to shed surges back every time. My inability to understand why people that I love abandon me, or to adequately defend myself so that I am not in a place to need to understand never fails to push its way to the forefront. My anger at my feelings of dissatisfaction re-emerge, asking me what exactly am I looking for and do I really believe that anything better lies beyond the horizon?
After the massage is finished, he says to me: Your aura is dark.
Yes. I know.
3 Baleful Regards:
I hope you get your aura all bright and shiny again soon. But seriously, can this year get any sadder? No, don't answer that.
I'm so sorry. I am thinking of you.
You are both kind people and good friends.
I will be all right - it is just allowing myself to feel the sadness again - Sadness I thought I had done and dusted.
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