Alone, we discover who we are.
Last week, a massage -- ah, to be touched, the warmth of the table penetrating into my inner organs and beyond.
You are someone who knows how to receive a massage, the therapist says. I have some clients, he says, who can never be pleased, they don't know what their bodies want.
Knowing isn't getting.
I thought I would get the massage and go, before returning to the on-going slog of the IRS tax audit and Memorial Sloan Kettering bills (the subject of a future blog).
Instead the therapist brings me a glass of cucumber water and invites me to the stay the day at the spa, lounging in a room overlooking the water.
Why not?
Five hours later, sated with several naps, lunch ordered from the adjacent cafe, and a mug of honeyed tea, I sink into my body.
For the moment, she had what she wanted. A purification and a peace not felt since Rich's death, and a long time before that.
I make another appointment, a month away, for my birthday. Not a celebration, but a restoration of a body in disrepair and a soul lost, getting what she needs, if not what she wants.
Candace
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