Never will that happen, unless I have a lobotomy. Nor do I want it to.
But in the past week, I have come closer to gut health as a series of events and people moved into my life, equipped with forks and knives to carve up the indigestible and serve up only the good parts.
One will be mentioned here because the event made no sense.
I was relaxing in the Tranquility Room at my local day spa (an indulgence this year) when a woman walked in. She was not the usual spa type, who tend towards the healthy and fit. She emerged from behind the massage rooms' curtain on swollen, wobbly legs, and her well-creased face was testimony to many years.
We caught eyes.
"I just had a massage," she said.
That was all she said. But her glow said more, as if she were revealing a secret, as if no one ever heard of a massage before. I moistened. I melted.
She slowly walked to two other women lounging in the room, who I guessed were her daughters, and kissed them. When the massage therapist brought her a mug of lemon water, she glowed even brighter in amazement, staring at the miracle of the cup, the water, the fruit.
With all of her self -- and more -- she gave me a massage, too, easing out the tightness that didn't expect to be touched.
And revealing possibilities of a life yet to come.
Candace
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