Had my first massage with a new therapist, in our new hood, today. I felt like the playwright dwarf in Pratchett’s books that is pelted by inspiration: blog posts surged through me as I lay on the table. I woke up a bit over an hour before the treatment, so my usual two coffees to get me into being in the world were peaking.
You know, mind. Mind in the body on the table. Watching the therapist’s feet. Loving the feet as open to the carpet and what I see is the person and not, the intelligence physically feeling the carpet through the feet-form. Observing the person-soul of the moving feet and their opening to the surface underneath and listening to what this shows. Feeling the pain, tension, and habit in my body and the breath and watching the caffeine mind run.
Run about the love I have for people like this therapist, not a personal love, not a person love, but a love, well yes, ok, for people. But not personality. Ok, maybe personality, but not the love as it is sold. Love for the honesty in the feet. Love that there are people who are putting in work in an art, like massage, like healing. I have had this love for many, often teachers or practitioners. Or students of mine. It is a love for enquiry, loving those who are curious, who are developing skills, who are listening with their hands and their thoughts. Who watch muscles and bones, who see a flow in a yoga pose, who intervene to help with playing a rhythm. I love those who art, who teach, who support. Hold and flow. Move into the next soft knee lunge to move the stroke along my back.
This love and this ‘yes’ to a person is pure and good. It can also be accompanied by a rush, a dive, a leap, and this sometimes means that little warning bells are sped past. In the rush for the yes, the warning bell about the housemate or teacher or student or practitioner is brushed aside. I hear it, and sometimes I so want the yes, to enjoy all the rest of the yes, that I turn away from being with the bell. I want my new massage therapist. I want to feel at home through having a healing support here. I want my yoga place. Possibly, I could find my Sufi place.
But, hey, I’m a bit older, I don’t have to rush in. The rush is lovely and all, and has been a part of actually falling in love with partners: and at my age I also now that the rush can be looked back upon with … a sigh. A sigh that I knew that. I heard the bell. Doesn’t take away from all that is good and loved in the person or in our dynamic. And, yes, I would have liked the strokes to be deeper. And, yes, I can say that and speak up. And I don’t have to be 100%. And maybe there is no 100% liking everything about someone.
Maybe I look for the 100% because so much of the world and human creation is so shit, or has a violent, destructive impact on me. And on each other. Because I sense the aggro and the greed and the ugly, I then am keen to be: this. This is my one yoga place. This is my one massage person. Which has it’s own beauty, depth, and loyalty. Makes me feel at home, which I am currently not. Still.
Have some stillness in the rush, grasshopper. Some patience with the bells. Learning to hover and not force the landing.