Got a massage today and it was amazing. There were times when I almost konked out, and other times when I was on “high alert” because she was bustin’ some serious moves on some very sore muscles, and it hurt. Not a bad hurt, but I had to keep reminding myself to “allow” the muscle to stretch, and to not armor against the pain. I had to tell myself that this long, slow, deep move that was inching up my IT band, over some pretty rocky terrain, needed to happen. I needed this length, this stretching out.
Massages always feel self-indulgent to me, though. I used to have trouble justifying the expense, but when you find an intuitive, skilled massage therapist like mine, massages feel like an essential part of your health care. Nothing else can put you in such intimate relationship with the bio-mechanics of your body.
Normally, I am too obsessed with the external “look” of my body. I know this.
I feel (and hate) every excess pound. I mourn every wrinkle, every gray hair, every indication that gravity is getting the best of me, that time is not on my side. But on the massage table, face down in that padded brace with expert fingers finely articulating the geography of my musculature, exploring the architecture of my body, I know who I really am and it has nothing to do with wrinkles and gray hairs. It’s about the mystery of blood and bone, heartbeat and breath, and how much I am willing to expand out into the vast universe inside.