I can honestly say I have never had a bad day at work as a massage therapist. Working as I have over the years in indvidual sessions has been so satisfying and, well, touching. Sorry for the pun. The depth of honesty, the transformational power of attending to another, and the beauty of witnessing the human body move into greater health gives back to me as much as I give to others. Truly.
Occasionally clients have expressed to me how important our work has been in their lives via a poem. I have saved them because they are so beautiful. They remind me just how significant my help has been in their lives and toward their growth as people. Recently I came upon a poem from a client from twenty years ago. Besides being beautifully written, by a professional writer, it reminds me of another time for it was typed on a typewriter in an old-fashioned font. Pre-internet and Microsoft Word. The translucent parchment-like typing paper is yellowing just a bit, and curling at all four corners. Because the poem speaks of the spacious simplicity of presence, I feel the typed version is as perfect as an art piece. Try to think about the last time you experienced the world as this quiet. I haven’t spoken to this client in many years but I would like to share her poem with you here. Because I don’t have her permission to use her name I will leave that out for now. I hope to reach her soon.
Just a small visual cue about my office as a way of ’seeing’ the poem. It has two large windows facing west to gardens and hills. In summer the windows are often open. Here it is:
Love Poem to a Therapist (to her hands, to her art)
for Susan
This evening
I take off my clothes
and lie on line-dried sheets,
The window is open, a hum.
The Green Mountains are purple,
the flowers are purple,
pollen on the table.
In shifting squares of evening,
I wait for you,
for sudden breath releasing,
palm-warmed oil.
For pulling neck to hairline,
fingers to occipital,
your form obscuring new stars.
It is dark.
I am still.
Your touch is firm, I soften.
