Farmer Mike

Acrylic washes on paper by Phillip Hoyle
after a Navajo petroglyph design

As a child I listened again and again to the story of the country mouse and the city mouse on the 78rpm recording Mom bought us kids. Neither city nor country mouse understood how the other could bear to live where it did. I dubbed myself a city mouse; actually I preferred the designation city slicker. Even though I’d had early childhood fantasies of farming with my grandpa, by high school I knew better about myself. I liked country scenes but not country life. I couldn’t imagine farming as a vocation; my early-formed citified sense of myself was too strong. I didn’t even want to live in the country, let alone farm the fields. I needed something else for myself, something visionary, urban, and arty.

In adult life I enjoyed living in ever-larger cities until we ended up in Mid-Missouri, a young family with two children living outside the city limits. The town wasn’t all that large (under forty thousand) and the country seemed lonely and deserted to me. Even though I was astounded with the views of ridges and hollows swathed in morning mists, sunrises and settings of amazing hues, and an abundance of multi-shaded green grasses and trees, I was nervous the whole time we lived out there. I locked doors and wondered who had just driven by on the road and why. My country-reared wife thought it was funny given that all the years we lived in cities I had rarely locked doors. I just felt uneasy in the country, like if I needed help, no one would hear my cries. And yard work seemed too much like farm work for the lawn was way too large.

As a parent I wanted the best for my kids; wanted them to have full, wonderful lives. I didn’t push them towards anything particular, but I did harbor distrust of some lifestyles and occupations. My daughter seemed to like living in Missouri. She has lived there most of her life and—like her dad—seems to prefer living right in town, close to work, close to schools, close to the library, close to her friends, and close to neighbors. My son Mike has lived most of his adult life between Colorado and Missouri. Well, listen, I’ll tell his story from my parental point-of-view.

The artist and musician emerged early in my son Mike’s life. He had a beautiful singing voice, loved to dance, and drew and painted with exceptional talent for a youngster. I was pleased he might become an artist, something my father had cautioned against. I could easily imagine a life in the arts as being a fine choice for my son.

But Mike liked outdoors activities as well as music and art. Unlike his sister and his parents, Mike became a country mouse. I wasn’t surprised. I’d known for years the little boy who adored his farmer grandpa Vance, who was even built and looked like him. I’d known the kid who backpacked, canoed, and explored caves. I’d known the teenager who in his old Chevy van went off to the farm to help his uncle plant corn and then returned for the harvest. I’d known the young man who later returned to the farm with his growing family to work for his uncle. I’d known the young man who moved to a commune where he raised organic carrots to sell in the commune store. Of course, he did lots more there: taught art in the commune school, fixed things around the place’s several houses, but he also repaired fences, helped with livestock, planted, weeded, and harvested. You know, farm stuff. Still, I’d persisted in thinking of Mike as a husband and dad, an artist and musician, and of course, my son.

After a year at the commune the family returned to Missouri where they lived in the country adjacent to a national forest. There they raised chickens and goats and a garden. Michael found a job at a native plants nursery some thirty miles away, down near Brazito. There he kept machines running, helped harvest prairies, sorted seed, assisted customers, and eventually planted and transplanted the great variety of flora, and coordinated the work of the other employees. His family moved into town to cut down on the commute. Then, about four years ago, the firm’s beautifully-illustrated, full-color catalog listed my son as the nursery’s Farm Manager. Heather, his wife, told me Mike was terribly embarrassed. She was proud of him and entertained by his modesty. I still enjoyed his music making and his painting, still thought of him in those terms. 

Last fall Mike told me that the past couple of years he’d been taking trailer loads of native plants and seed to a farmers market in St. Louis. Then he and his family started searching for a country house to buy. With the generous help of a family friend, they bought one on twenty acres—a steal of a deal—and prepared to move back to the country.

I planned a trip to celebrate the graduation ceremony of two grandsons. During the last phone call before I left on my trip, Mike told me how busy he was and how elated he felt living again in the country. I looked forward to seeing their farmhouse, barn, orchard, and pasture.

“Will you get goats?” I asked.

Michael said, “Probably not.”

I saw the beautiful old house when I went there for the graduation party. Two evenings later I returned and Mike gave me the grand tour. Walking past the garden, he realized no one had gathered the asparagus that morning. After we took a nice basketful back to the kitchen, we put the chickens and ducks into the hen house. In the corral I met the new cow and her calf. By then it was pretty dark; we returned to the house.

The next morning we went back outdoors and walked the pastures. Mike had rented part of his land to a neighbor for a bean field. Mike wanted it farmed for a couple of years to get rid of all the European grasses. His plan is then to seed it in native plants to return it to its old state. He can make more money by harvesting it as native prairie. In fact, he could make a lot more money off it and graze the cow there as well. When we stopped by the corral, Mike showed me his new tractor pointing out its advantages and disadvantages. He spoke of it like my Denver friends talk about their new cars—with pride and great satisfaction although, also like them, saying he paid more than he’d intended.

When we walked through the orchard of pears and apples, peaches and plums, something in his information and in his enthusiasm brought into focus what I’d been hearing for years. Mike was becoming a farmer—a real one who loved to plant and harvest, to feed himself and others with the fruit of his labor, to become the husbandman of his own Garden of Eden, and to drive his tractor. He had his own acreage, his own place, an image that had also surfaced at times over the years. This man, who as a child had wanted his parents buried so he would have a place to visit them, now had the place, a farm where he could feel secure on the face of the huge and abundant earth and eventually spread his parents’ ashes. The farmer in him was now connected to the soil.

Heather told me how they had felt so wrought up at the realization they were becoming landowners, something they had never really dreamed. Their conceptual solace came in the notion that they were now caretakers of a bit of the earth put in trust to them. And they are both caretakers: she of the animals, he of the land and plants. With this in mind, they’ve become farmers as well as musicians, dancers, painters, and writers. Now I am a farmer’s dad.

I talked again with Mike on the phone the other day. He told me more about the farm, about pears, nectarines, plums, apples, and peaches. He mentioned several goats and bees too. The garden is producing. They haven’t been able to sell much yet, but thankfully, there is no waste. With five people and all the animals, everything gets eaten. Mike now farms four days at the nursery and three days at home. Heather cares for the cow that produces milk for the table and for making butter and cheese. The orchard is ready to burst even though it is just a fraction of what it had been years ago. The bees are making honey. The hens and ducks are about ready to start laying eggs. And to my deep joy and his, farmer Mike, my son, continues to paint and to play his guitar, sometimes even to his goats.

Denver, 2011

Table Talk: Jesus Massage

Shaman's Quest, mixed media painting by Phillip Hoyle

     One day, Jesus showed up at John the baptizer’s spa down by the river and asked for the special water treatment. He followed John into the water and yielded himself to the immersion therapy. Following the treatment, Jesus experienced a further baptism of holy spirit. He was moved by a compelling sense of God’s transformative love. In these twin baptisms, Jesus celebrated his calling into a ministry of teaching and healing, and he understood baptism as a cleansing that prepared him for his new work.

     In the water treatment Jesus was born in a new way. The sparkling liquid was somehow eternal, springing from a live source--a spring that provided water to drink in a dry and thirsty land. Symbolically, rivers of living water could then flow out of Jesus’ heart and those of his disciples. Many people would be cleansed, have their thirst quenched, and likewise enter into lives of service to others.

     Jesus ministered to crowds of people and healed many of them. He didn’t hide his gifts but, rather, worked freely among the crowds of people as well as with his select few. He taught them that they were ultimately valued, illustrating his point by saying that God knew the number of hairs on their heads. With his own hands, he reached out and manipulated the hands of others. He consoled his closest disciples by holding them, as well as by speaking words of assurance. He affected people, put his hands over their eyes, gave them water and food. He took a woman by her hand and lifted her up; he stretched out his hand and touched a crippled man; he put his fingers into another man’s ears; he rubbed ointment on a man’s eyes and laid his hands on him. Jesus helped children onto his lap, held them in his arms, and laid his hands on them, blessing them.

     Jesus’ touch was powerful. Not only did his teachings intrigue, challenge, and help others, but also his body emanated healing energy. In fact, so much power radiated from Jesus that people in crowds tried to touch him so they could be healed. He understood that the amazing energy was not his alone. Jesus always pointed to a divine source for the power that made it possible.

     At least one woman anointed his feet with oil, tears, and kisses. Following her example, Jesus washed his own disciples’ feet. John’s gospel describes the event at what later generations called the Last Supper. Jesus washed their feet and then joined them as they, in the custom of the day, reclined on couches and were served the feast. He lay at table with his closest followers in intimate, though common, poses. They knew him. They knew his body, his hands in healing service, and the presence of his power.

     Another man named John, not “the baptizer,” became Jesus’ disciple and was known as “the beloved.” When Jesus touched John, his touch may have been felt as healing, sexual, friendly, or ordinary. We don’t know, but we do imagine it was somehow exceptional. In the words of orthodoxy, Jesus’ touch was sacramental, communicating that people were being accepted by the divine. But Jesus himself taught more about this touch. For him, it was his own contacting of the divine in the bodies, personalities, and faith of the persons he touched.

     Jesus was a practitioner of love and touch. He taught his disciples to live extraordinary lives as well, sharing a sparkling, transforming generosity with those around them. They entered his reconciling work, characterized by their encounter with the divine in the bodies of the poor, the ill, the destitute, the powerless, and others in need. Massage, like Jesus’ touch, has the potential to communicate power and many of the feelings his closest friends may have perceived. It is a dance of eternal peace, a ritual of love, a show of friendship, and always a transformation of the ordinary. For the client, it may seem healing, sexual, friendly, or ordinary. They may be confused, or they may find in it a divine power. For the therapist, such discoveries may also surprise. If it is to be a Jesus massage, it will reveal the divine in the body of the massaged one and will begin anew the flow of living water from heart to heart.

Table Talk: Contrasting Sorrows

Mixed media, acrylic washes and graphite, Phillip Hoyle

     In the years when I served churches as a minister, I visited in the homes of grieving families. I talked with them, held them, listened to stories of the deceased, and helped them plan funeral or memorial services. I led the services and often, as a part of my comments, encouraged people to recount their own recollections of the person who had died so together they could smile, laugh, and weep in telling and hearing them. I became used to death in congregational life--its occurrence, its ritualization, its attendant emotions and actions in the grieving.

     Of course, not all of the deaths were the same or had the same affect on the congregation or me. Some of the deceased were so distant from congregational life that they were barely known, if at all. Their deaths seemed to generate little feeling except within the family and friendships. Some deaths affected the congregation deeply because the deceased was so well-known and appreciated. Other deaths seemed tragic in that they came to younger people. By contrast, and because of old age or the nature of the disease involved, a few deaths seemed a great relief to the dying persons and their loved ones. Always there was grief, but usually it was not my own.

     In the past dozen years I have lost five very close friends and relatives, including my parents. If before experiencing these deaths, I was helping other people to mourn, since then I have become one of the grieving.

     Deaths of my clients from the AIDS clinic have deeply affected me. I was a bit surprised by this since I had been professionally related to death for so long. These deaths seem more like those of family and friends. I suspect the personal feelings arise from the fact that I have massaged these people. The direct physical contact creates an intense bond, at least for me. Perhaps I pour more of my energy into massaging them than I ever did into praying and visiting with parishioners. In trying to understand this phenomenon, I find helpful the Cartesian observation that emotions arise from the body. Whatever the contributing causes, the deaths of my massage clients seem more personal, very close to my life.

     Sometimes my massage-related grief brings with it a sense of responsibility. From our conversations during massage, I know that some of my clients appear to be living in great isolation. Following their death, I believe not many other people may be grieving for the deceased. One client had only one woman friend and no relationship with his family. I felt a tragic sense in his aloneness, perhaps more than he did himself. My former congregational connection had always provided a mourning community to remember the one who died, even if they didn’t know him or her well. Now I sometimes feel I mourn alone.

     That usually is what happens to me. I don’t hear of the death until weeks after its occurrence. I don’t attend a funeral or memorial service; I never visit a gravesite. I mourn by telling another volunteer massage therapist about the death, by remembering the few things I know about the deceased, and by writing my memories and feelings. I recall images of their bodies, a few details about their lives and illness, an interesting thing we talked about, and some of the emotions I experienced while working with them. These few, simple actions and memories do not seem like much, but they always seem intense because I have touched my clients and they me. I am sometimes moved to tears and sadness upon learning of their deaths and to even more emotions in recalling the few things I know about them. Am I now called to mourn? Is this a feature of some on-going ministerial vocation? I mourn. I thank God for the lives of these people, my new congregation, my current experience of the body of the living Christ. While I miss their skin and muscles under my fingers, I continue to cherish their memories.

Table Talk: Anointing

Collage of petroglyph rubbing on mat.

I sometimes wish I could ride to the rescue in my work as a massage therapist. I'd like to have a strong horse or group of horses to assist me in arriving at just the right time with just the perfect touch and just the proper measure of wisdom to share, but that rarely happens. I like this image of something--I think of a rider on a horse that is moving so fast as to appear to have many legs. 
I wish I could be so able.




     Michael died on Sunday. He wasn’t my first loss to HIV and AIDS, but this was different. I was present, and I loved this guy unlike any man I had ever loved. He was comatose when he died, had been for several hours. His RN sister and I gave him medications every fifteen minutes or so for pain control, and then he just stopped breathing. His heart quit beating. He died quietly.

     Over several months I had watched his body turn on itself, nourish itself with its own mass as the disease started overpowering the immune system. Michael lost his appetite. I observed his weight loss and saw him hike up his pants with ever-tighter belts. He became unsure on his feet, had little strength, and needed to sleep long hours each day.

     I studied his body after his last breath, its continuing losses of color, movement, and shape. The little bit of muscle and fat left seemed to deflate. His all-too-prominent skull became more pronounced. I observed his dog, Willie, regard Michael after the death. He, too, noticed the difference. Ozzie, his other dog, wouldn’t look at him, but through his nervous behavior, communicated his awareness that Michael was dead.

     I have lost a friend and lover in this death. Tears well up in my eyes and my throat clutches when I think or talk about Michael. I feel alone. While I have some of Michael’s friends as new friends of mine, I don’t have Michael to visit, to eat with, to lie next to, to laugh with, to hold close to me. I am sad at the loss of one I loved, one who loved me.

     I felt like Mary Magdalene when I massaged Michael, understanding that I was helping prepare him for his death. As I kept watch at his death I felt like her again, she who had stood at Jesus’ cross and watched him die. I helped lower the bed and re-arrange Michael’s body after death, as Mary helped receive Jesus’ body when it was removed from the cross. And like Mary, who rushed to Jesus’ grave after Sabbath in order to anoint him, I wanted to apply oil to Michael’s body.

     I stood in Michael’s bedroom remembering what a Greek Orthodox priest had told me: how a dead priest is anointed by other priests. I wanted to do something similar with Michael. But because I was afraid it might freak out his sister or the hospice nurse who came to the house quickly after his death, I contented myself with anointing his forehead. Searching the room, I found some lotion. I rubbed it on his face, following its contours and, finally, I made signs of a circle and a cross as a kind of prayer, a final touching. It was my own good-bye to Michael.

     Following the advice of a book I had been reading, I decided not to ask why, but rather, what now? What next? Two days later I went to my volunteer work at the AIDS clinic. My first client that day was even skinnier than Michael. I traced his ribs and sought ways to rub my hands comfortably over his bony shoulders. Tears fell from my eyes. I worked to channel all the love I had for Michael into my client’s body. By contrast, my last client of the day had a well-developed and ample body. I told him how pleased I was to massage a body that appeared so healthy. Still I cried and touched and loved. My work has aided me with my grief process, providing me reminders rather than rejection of loss. At the same time, it keeps me focused on a future of staying connected to a community where I encounter others’ needs and an opportunity to care for them.

     In a world where many people live with AIDS, I can expect to encounter many losses of friends and acquaintances. I want to mourn them properly and lovingly. I am prepared to help them live with the comfort of massage right up to the time of their deaths. I feel sure I will be able to offer my services to them as a living memorial to Michael.

Table Talk: Power

Colorado Cave Bear painting by Phillip Hoyle

     As I entered Alfredo’s massage office, my attention was drawn to a Navajo saddle blanket woven of wool yarn in several shades of brown. Though clearly the centerpiece of the room, the blanket was in sorry shape. Someone had tried to repair its fraying edges to keep it useful or, at least, intact. But the design itself had not been damaged. Its saw-toothed mountain pattern dominated the space, creating a sense of movement. I liked the design, but the blanket’s greatest appeal for me was knowing that it had been used for many years. I ran my hands over its surface, surprised and pleased by the softness of the wool. Touching it, I got goose bumps on my neck and head.

     “What do you feel from it?” Alfredo asked. I had recalled the red monoliths of Monument Valley, and imagined horses resting after a day of riding across mesas and mountains. I could almost smell burning piñon from an evening campfire where an old-timer told Navajo tales of sheep, snakes, and sex on the Rez. I pictured stacks of weavings in a trading post, but none of them were quite so attractive as this beat up blanket. But I explained to Alfredo only about having the goose bumps. They continued for about a minute, reaching down my backbone to its base.

     “When I felt it,” Alfredo continued, “I had images of a shaman. I think he used the blanket in healing ceremonies. It’s a very strong feeling. There’s lots of energy there.” My friend was sure that the blanket still had in it power for healing.

     Alfredo discovered the blanket in a pawn shop along with a bear skin. He purchased both: this healer’s blanket and the skin of an animal widely regarded for its healing properties and, in spirit form, for its aid in healing ceremonies. The blanket hangs on the wall over his massage table. I suspect the bear skin may be in the room as well, although I didn’t see it. Perhaps he placed it beneath the pad on his massage table.

     My friend reminds me of the Navajo bear priest in Leslie Marmon Silko’s novel Ceremony. The old man was called to help save a child from the bear people into whose territory the youngster had wandered. In one scene, the priest runs towards the bear canyon, strapping onto his wrists sprigs of spruce, readying himself for the ceremony that would call the boy away from the beasts. I picture Alfredo bedecking his massage table’s legs with spruce branches in anticipation of the arrival of a client he wants to help. Certainly Alfredo is a kind of priest, a healer.

     I once helped organize a seminar that sought to create a New Mexico definition of health. The event brought together medics, lawyers, judges, philosophers, theologians, social workers, psychologists, Hispanic curanderas, and Native healers. We talked. We laughed. We prayed. Together. We created a statement that we hoped would assist the New Mexico legislature as it tried to create health laws to benefit all the citizens of the state.

     Green-eyed, Mexican-American Alfredo manifests a similar inter-cultural, multi-lingual, broad-perspective definition of health. While he gives Swedish massage, he is always alert to his intuition, informed by the traditions of the curandera. He uses Native symbols and techniques in his work. My buddy believes in his intuitive insight, finding it both meaningful and helpful.

     If Alfredo hadn’t asked me what I felt when I touched the blanket, I believe I would not have noticed my goose bumps, or if I had, I would have registered them as only a response to touching the very soft and worn wool. Still, my mind was working in response to the touch. Did I, too, sense a lingering energy in the rug? While I was pleased to have seen and touched it, my rationalist education regarding common and holy things stood in the way of my perceiving the item as being imbued with power.

     An old woolen rug. Is it more than a common object? The designs worked into it do have some kind of religious meaning. I can easily accept that the weaving does have symbolic power such as theologian Paul Tillich described--the existential power of true symbols. Perhaps the blanket does “partake” of the power to which it points. I wonder, though, at the notion that the rug itself may contain some of the strength of mountains or the capacity to heal. I feel I cannot begin to answer my questions, but I do connect the rug with the bear skin and see their potent symbolism for healing.

     My own experience alerts me to some possibilities. Perhaps my goose bumps relate only to my imagination of Native American life, but such images may provide actual connections with a past and a present reality. They could communicate an invitation for me to accept and use healing energy. I do not want to project an image of myself as some kind of psychic or magical healer. But while I usually want to limit myself to ordinary experience, at the same time, I would like to open myself to any potentials that may reside within me. My thoughts want to be more than thoughts, definitions more than words for someone else’s use, scenes from books more than simply literature. Perhaps the power of blankets and bear skins can become as plain and ordinary a power for me as they are for Alfredo.

Table Talk: Acquainted with Grief

     I lost another client last week, a man to whom I had given massages occasionally for two years. Samuel was a gentle person who loved flowers and looked after the needs of his aging parents. He died from AIDS complications.

     In the course of the time I knew him, he had almost disappeared. Each time we met, there seemed to be a little less of him--less fat, less muscle, less energy. The skin draped loosely over the bony structure of this skinny, skinny man. I used very flat hands when massaging him since there was so little depth to the tissue, and I didn’t want to hurt him. I felt like I was massaging bones. I remember holding his head in my hands one of the last times I massaged him. The prominent vein on the forehead and the deeply sunken eyes and cheeks reminded me of others who had died. Quiet tears rolled down my face while I worked. I realized I was beginning to grieve for yet another client, this man who didn’t appear to have much time to live.

     The ancient Etruscans believed that once grief started it never ended and so advised that there was no point in grieving one hour earlier than one must. I failed to heed this advice with Samuel and started grieving him several months before he died. But it wasn’t just him. I had lost two friends and two other clients to this disease. My mourning for him seemed an extension of other griefs. While I have not honored the advice of the ancients, I do believe in the first part of the saying. Grief seems never to end.

     Life-change theory asserts that the grief cycle takes about two years to complete. Issues of loss change within the time period and usually encompass aloneness, readjustment, acceptance, and a need to get on with one’s life. Typically, the emotions related to grief relax significantly by the end of the time even though one may continue to experience occasional episodes of feeling bereft. Armed with this information, in my mid-thirties, I started thinking in two-year increments about my own emotions related to loss. Feeling hurt or confused, I’d figure if I were still within the two-year allotment of time for the grief cycle. The realization sometimes brought a small relief, a kind of calendared comfort, when pain persisted. But after age forty, I noticed that before one cycle could complete, I was starting another one. It felt like a stacking up of caskets in a temporary, winter-time mausoleum waiting for burial after the spring thaw. The bunching up continues. For me, grief seems here to stay.

     Two deaths have contributed most to the early onset of grief. The first, Ted’s, was preceded by his phone call telling me that his doctor said it was a matter of weeks or months before he would die. I was pondering that information when, a few weeks later, another friend, James, called to tell me he had just found out he was HIV+. These two phone calls plunged me into a grief I fought hard to resist. Certainly, I was confusing concepts of terminal disease and chronic disease. (Terminally ill, Ted died four months later; years later, James is still alive.) But I grieved several months before Ted died. In the second death, Michael’s, there were no phone calls. I was face to face with the disease as I watched him die. For months, on an almost daily basis, I observed his tiny losses of life, including changes of emotion, giving up beloved activities, decreases in energy, increases in pain, growth of lymph nodes, and more. Perhaps, empathetically, I was joining Michael in his dying process. Together we recognized and mourned loss after loss. Grief entered the picture long before he actually quit breathing.

     Michael had not been dead many days when I realized my client Samuel was becoming deeply ill. My tears for Samuel that day as I held his head were also tears for Michael. Two months later, Samuel missed an appointment without canceling. It didn’t seem like him simply to miss, and he had been so frail the last time I had worked with him. The case manager contacted his family and discovered that he had died.

     I now am living with grief, and I imagine it will follow me throughout the rest of my life, both as an ordinary occurrence and as an occupational given. Surely the Etruscans were right; once grief starts it never ends. I wonder whether I will learn not to begin grieving before I must. Perhaps I can ritualize my grief, turn it into a duty, and assign it predictable parameters for beginning and ending. If only life were that simple. Overlapping griefs have come to color my life and work in a significant way. I will try to recognize grief’s power and live into its significance.

Exultation, acrylic on paper, by Phillip Hoyle

Table Talk: Failing Bodies

     I became domesticated. Already I was doing more things at his house than I ever imagined: cleaning up after the dogs, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, even cooking. These were helpful to Michael, of course, but I wanted to do more, something to help him feel better.

     Michael’s illness was advancing too rapidly. I remember when I started to feel my time with him was really limited. I realized I might not have many more chances to express my love or to do nice things for him. I had met Michael when he came to me for a massage. The connection between us was instant and mutual. Before long we were meeting for coffee, talking and laughing together. Then there were small gifts: a magazine from him, a candle from me. I prepared him some artwork; he fixed me a wonderful meal. I still hoped for new and enjoyable experiences with Michael. I wanted him to feel my love, concern, and humor. I wasn’t ready for him to leave me and decided I would do what I could to make our remaining time together enjoyable--even with the pain, grief, and fear. Nearly every day I rubbed lotion on Michael’s dry back and arms and often massaged some sore spot on his body. He loved my touch. Finally, I realized that my most distinctive and comforting gift was the same gift I had first given him. “Maybe I can give Michael a massage tomorrow morning,” I thought.

     Recalling this, I think of other clients of mine. Kevin is having a harder time. Pat‘s liver is failing. Judy has cancer. Connie feels confused. Still others are experiencing decreases of energy, increases of motor problems related to peripheral neuropathy, memory loss. I hope to help them deal with their difficulties by the massages I give. More than one client has told me, “Phillip, you’re the only person who touches me.”

     These failing bodies prompted me to choose Saint Mary Magdalene as the patron of massage therapy. I find especially helpful the story of her anointing Jesus. A woman often identified as Mary comes into the banquet room and anoints Jesus’ feet with an expensive ointment. There is criticism: “The oil could have been sold and the proceeds given to the poor.” There is innuendo: “Don’t you know the reputation of this woman?” Jesus counters the arguments. “She has done a beautiful thing. She is anointing me for my burial.” His death was still weeks or months off in the account. The story seems all too apt. No one else was preparing Jesus’ body for his death. Perhaps the others were focused on trying to prevent his death or in denial of its inevitability and approach. Whatever else may have been happening, Mary was the one who touched Jesus’ body. The Gospel paints a picture of intimacy, caring, love, extravagance, and much more. Mary stooped over Jesus’ feet, applied oil, massaged it in, wiped off the excess. I imagine Jesus’ relief, thankfulness, and pleasure.

     Something similar occurs in my massages at the AIDS clinic. I anoint failing bodies. My work values them with touch. While the client may have to deal with the ongoing failure of systems within his or her body, I have the luxury and the task of working with what medical people call the presenting problem. I don’t carry into the massage the memory of a healthy body. I simply greet the person and start my work with questions like: “Do you have any particular aches or pains you want me to address?” “Do you prefer a light or heavy touch?” Where I sense pain, I ask how much it hurts, and, following my work, I ask if the client is feeling better. I value the present person through the quality of my touch, hoping to communicate love and my own valuing of their body.

     The body’s breakdown often leaves persons with remembered images and an elevated sense of loss. Some of my clients have lost their stamina and with it their jobs. Some have had to quit working out. Others can barely make it to their many medical appointments. Such losses erode self-confidence, self-image, self-reliance. Not only have they lost the ability to do what they used to do when they had better health and stronger bodies, but they also realize they will never be able to accomplish all their hoped-for activities. Their bodies are failing them; their lives may end soon. They have difficulty valuing the body that is betraying them.

     I knew Michael less than nine months. He had been HIV infected for several years and was already on disability when we met. He was pretty skinny, living with some unlovely side effects from his medications, but still able to enjoy eating out, to take short trips in the area, to tend flowers and vegetables in his garden. I saw a spare, even gaunt beauty in his face and frame. I appreciated, touched, and enjoyed every part of his body. I was unwilling to give up any part of it even as I watched it betray him. I saw him lose more weight, heard his roars of anguish at his pain, and steadied his shaking body. I realized I was watching him die, but still I loved him, all of him, even those parts that weren’t working well.

     Michael readily agreed to my suggestion of a massage. We drove to my apartment. I helped him climb the stairs. In the massage room he undressed and got onto the table. I covered him with a blanket. As Michael relaxed, I loved him with my hands. I stooped over his failing body, rubbed in the oil, removed the excess. I anointed him in his life and in preparation for his death.

Mixed media art by Phillip Hoyle

Table Talk: Full of Feeling

     Troy is on my mind. I remember feeling so good, so concerned, so bad in connection with him. I met him at the AIDS clinic, but Troy wanted more than the one allotted massage per month. That pleased me. He came for work at my studio with some regularity and always set the next appointment at the end of a session. Then he missed an appointment. I figured with his occasional dementia he had simply forgot. A couple of days later, though, I grew concerned when I didn’t see Troy in the neighborhood. I was afraid that perhaps debt was keeping him away since he owed me money for a massage. A few weeks later as I was walking past Troy’s apartment, he tapped on his window to get my attention. I was so relieved to see him again even though this relief was still tinged with concern. He told me he had been ill and in the hospital, but now he was back home and ready for a massage. Working with him again was a delight. He was full of humor. We laughed together at the funny things he said although I nearly cried when he told me I was the only person who touched him.

     Then I didn’t see him again. Troy seemed to be gone. Not a word, no answer of his phone, no sign of life at his apartment. I recall the insuppressible joy when I saw the light in his window, and I can still feel the drooping disappointment when, looking in, I noticed that his furniture and other things were gone. Was he in the hospital or a hospice? Was he dead? I tried to find out from his case manager but only felt frustrated by the bureaucratic barriers that kept his information from me.

     I am full of feeling. I suppose some of it is residual, related to my friend Ted’s death by AIDS and my being unable to help him at the end. Then I was working more than full-time, and he lived halfway across the country. Now I have the time and am living in the right neighborhood. I want to help Troy like I wanted to help Ted. I prize the massages I have given this man. Where is Troy with his sad body, humorous imagination, and occasional bitchiness? I treasure my memories of sliding my hands over his body, of pulling, beating, pushing, and soothing. I have held his head, mussed and straightened his hair, put oil between his toes, rubbed lotion into his dry skin.

     I feel how Mary Magdalene may have felt when she anointed Jesus--intrigued with his life and anticipating his death. Life is good. I affirm that every day in my writing. I pray that death also may be beautiful. Has Troy died? If so, “Go, Troy. Show the holy oil on your dry skin to the creator of the universe and of the human body. Let the divine light reflect from your own glistening and softening skin. I love you and thank you for presenting yourself to me for anointing.”

     Where is Troy? I need to know. Perhaps this feeling, too, is related to my past. Having worked many years in church ministry, I knew about the deaths of persons I had served or met. I planned and led their funeral services or at least attended them. Perhaps I will have to learn to massage without such a personal connection, but it doesn’t feel good. I have laid my hands on Troy in therapeutic love and want to know his situation. Surely his case manager will find a way to tell me about Troy. I simply want to know whether he is dead or alive.

     If he is dead, I need to mourn him.

     If he is alive, I need to give him a massage.

Urban Power Shileds, mixed media art by Phillip Hoyle

Table Talk: Prayer to Jeremy

Walking About, mixed media painting by Phillip Hoyle

     Why am I praying to you, Jeremy? What could I possibly want from you? Certainly you are no conventional saint. There was no hint of a halo except when the sun shone behind your blazing red hair. You were not known either for the denial of your body or for outstanding works of self-sacrifice that characterize the lives of other saints. I’m praying, but I don’t want a favor from you. I don’t need help from you in massage technique; I appeal elsewhere for that. I’m not asking for stamina although I might gain something by following your body-builder self into a regular exercise routine. Do I want your intercession? How un-Protestant of me.

     I guess I do want you to grant me one thing: insight into if and how I was helpful to you. I want to know if you found my massages really beneficial, not just in the sense of whether they helped you relax. Were the massages healing as you claimed and, if so, just how? I know you called me a healer. You said you bragged to doctors, nurses, and others about the healing quality of my work. But I wonder if you were only putting me on in your extraordinarily dramatic way. I want to trust you, to believe in what you said. Mostly, though, I want to be able to believe in myself as a healer of sorts, of any sort.

     I want to know just what I was able to give you besides a massage. I want to know if my gentle separation of massage from sex helped you understand your worth beyond your sexual capacity, if my acceptance of you helped you heal in some large or small way. Tell me what pleasures, calm, relaxation, restoration, or hope the massages brought. How, Jeremy, were you healed?

     Hear my prayer and answer me. Let me know myself through our embodied memories and un-bodied continuing relationship. Be for me the communication of the Divine, the kiss of the holy, the baptism of spirit.

     Thank you for your singular gifts to my life and practice.

     Amen.


Note: If you did not read last week's post, do so to get more out of what you have just read.

Table Talk: Self Care

Shamanic Healer  Painting by Phillip Hoyle

     I wonder why I have so much trouble providing myself massage. Why do I put off going to others for massages I surely need or even doing the work myself? Why is setting aside time seemingly such a problem, dedicating energy so difficult, and appropriating money such a block?

     My lower back hurt. I awoke with the pain on the morning after Halloween. Dressing for a dinner party the previous evening, I had hurriedly selected a pair of slacks that were too tight. I tucked in my shirt to look nice, and I looked good. But I realized when I sat in Frank’s car on the way to the party, I could hardly breathe. Since the hostess was wearing her 40th Anniversary Barbie Doll dress and her husband a tux, since people who didn’t know me were in attendance, I didn’t feel free to get comfortable. Usually I would simply pull out my shirttails and unfasten my pants. But that night I sat in uncomfortable, rented chairs for way too many hours, and I paid for it when I tried to get up the next morning.

     Somehow, I don’t find the above explanation quite convincing to account for the amount and persistence of my pain. It reminds me of a client who suggested his awful shoulder pain was due to sleeping on a new pillow. I do like the humor of the scene--barely being able to breathe and enduring the too-tight pants for the sake of a public image--but I suspect there was more at play. Probably the constriction of the pants and belt activated a latent, painful spot or two that had bothered me some months back. I had suffered similar back pains from giving too many hours of massage, and years ago I had hurt my back in a snowmobile accident. Whatever the cause, I did hurt.

     That morning I could hardly move, but I had to get going since I was scheduled to give an early massage. A hot shower and all the movement of the massage left my back less painful and freer, but that afternoon, while drinking coffee with a friend, I felt a deep soreness settling in. The friend, a massage therapist, volunteered to work on me. His fifteen-minute massage helped, but it didn’t get rid of the pain. I asked another guy to work on it a couple of days later. The pain persisted. A third therapist worked on me two days later. He made other, related muscles hurt from his very deep work, but the back pain did not go away.

     A week later I awoke thinking, “I need to work my abdomen,” but I couldn’t make myself do the work. Many arguments and several hours later, I finally lay down on the floor and worked my abdomen. I approached the area using traditional Thai massage techniques. During this self-treatment, I further realized that to get rid of my week-old pain I would need to do more work on deeper muscles that pass through the pelvic girdle. Several hours later I also talked myself into doing that work.

     The massage that resulted in the release I needed so badly did not take much time, but apparently it did require a commitment to myself I haven’t yet found. I want to change myself in ways that encourage sufficient and regular self-caring. I wish I’d quit putting off work I can either do on myself or ask someone else to do for me. I would like to find the freedom to spend money and time for work that will give me pain relief and muscle releases. I want to feel vigorously healthy in my work and pain-free in my play. How else will I stay fit for the years to come? How else will I be able to encourage others to spend their time and money on massage?

I desire to find ways in which I can best live as an artist and a massage therapist: unleashing my creativity, caring for myself, loving myself in practical yet occasionally extravagant ways. In order to do so, I suspect I will need to overcome accusations of selfishness I sometimes aim at myself. I have work to do, growth to realize, and self-love to develop.

     My family was not very physical. Dad played tennis but didn’t encourage us children to do the same. We played neighborhood games, but none of us became sports players or even fans. We weren’t touched much. We watched Mom and Dad touch and kiss, but we were rarely folded close into our parents’ bodies, at least not to my recollection. I watched my sisters run from my father when he threatened to kiss them and scratch them with his whiskers, but I was never touched by either him or my mother. We rarely went to the doctor. Fortunately, I was healthy and seldom ill, but these things together--our family’s reluctance to touch, independence from health care, and general good health--may have become part of my distancing from myself, my own body, my own self-care. They may hold some key to my figuring out how to give better care to myself.

     My wife observed during the nearly thirty years of our marriage that I had become increasingly physical in my relations with people. I gave and sought more touch, a phenomenon that has contributed to my becoming a massage therapist. Still, I did not seek this touch from health care professionals or even hair stylists. I hated to spend money on such things. I did not provide for myself what I was happy to provide others. Luckily, I have been healthy; unfortunately, I have not learned to seek help for myself when I need it. I need it now.

     As I was writing this piece, I cut my finger with a knife intended to cut an onion. I evaluated the damage. If I were not trying to make a living doing massage, I’d probably put an adhesive bandage on the place, but I really did need stitches. Here was a blatant opportunity to provide self-care. I called my friend Tony for personal support and for a ride to a family practice clinic where the wound was properly stitched. I can consider this as being practice for further dimensions of self-caring. I am thankful for my friend who drove me to the clinic. Still, I need more assistance. To whom can I pray for help in making these changes? What holy figure showed such self-care? Jesus? Mary Magdalene? Another saint? I don’t know, but I suspect I will have to pray to myself. I will have to ask my own self-neglecting hermit saint to open himself to the divine communication that will take place only when I love myself and care for myself. Amen.

Table Talk: Witness

     A few observations and a short conversation often disclose a lot about a person. Since most of our guests at the spa are women, and many of the men who schedule ask for a woman therapist, I was pleased to find a male client on my schedule a few Saturdays ago. I met the man who looked to be about thirty-five, healthy, and friendly. Watching a brief interaction between him and his wife, I judged his manner rather fawning but not insincere. As a couple they seemed too emotionally connected, like a pair with no offspring, who treat one another as if each were the child of the union.

     Our conversation during the massage revealed my client to be a salesman by occupation. He must have been successful, as he was able to afford monthly trips with his spouse to expensive hotels and fancy spas. He had played football in high school and was still in good shape due to working out regularly at a gym. As a young adult, he had studied art, hoping for a career as an artist, but had not pursued his dreams for some undisclosed reason. I listened and looked. Details of his Colorado Springs origin and abode, his clean cut good looks, his too-precious manner with his wife seemed to speak clearly to me. “Help,” I thought. “I have an evangelical on my table, and I’m about to be witnessed to.”

     My assumption seemed accurate. His approach was subtle as he sought to make an opening in the conversation for his testimony. The first assay related to his assertion that one has to experience inner change in order to change one’s body, its health and muscles. I didn’t take the bait. The other was his statement that God surely made the body amazing. I simply agreed but didn’t encourage a conversation. For a salesman, he seemed a bit unsure in his witness, or perhaps he was the consummate salesman who knows whether he really has any chance of closing a deal.

     I had successfully deflected his attempt to lasso me. In so doing, I may have missed having a significant conversation about the body, but I didn’t want to hear about the personal change that comes when one takes the five steps to salvation, inviting Jesus into one’s heart. While I am Christian, I really have tired of the earnest witnessing I have often been subjected to over the years. I didn’t want to explain my complicated theology to someone who seemed content with his own formulaic certainty. I just was not ready to be assaulted by a true believer, not even by a nice one.

     To give my client a break, he seemed to be a decent guy and has a beautiful body that he continues to keep fit. I suspect an important inner change did alter his life, and that the divine may have rescued him from some destructive future. These would be fine things to share, but I didn’t invite him to do so.

     Instead, I insisted on sharing my own witness, a silent testimony I proclaim through massage. In making it, I am not trying to convince people to accept a particular belief. Rather, I exalt the body as it is--regenerated or not, appealing or repulsive, healthy or ill, thriving or dying. While I am not a creationist and some days barely a theist, I still marvel at the truth of the divine communication in human form. Divinity loves through persons, presents itself in community, and encourages creative living. These divine touches are the most meaningful aspects of my witness.

     This is my witness: to my clients, to the beauty of their bodies, to what and to all that they are. I testify silently with hands, body weight, sweat, and the techniques of massage. My message avoids words; massage speaks its own language. The divine is not separate from the body but, rather, is a continuous revelation of love in any particular body. It seems ironic to me, but I have become a massage evangelical, making my silent witness to everyone who comes to my table.

God, help me keep my witness silent and subtle. Amen.

Peace Rose from the Garden  Photo by Phillip Hoyle

Same rose as above from a different angle

Table Talk: Trauma

     Melissa came to my practice at the suggestion of a friend. She was looking for a massage therapist near her home who would help her recover from an accident. We set a time for a first session in which to evaluate one another and decide if we should work together.

     While walking across an alleyway, Melissa was run into by a moving automobile. The car was not moving very fast, yet it hit her on the left side and dragged her several yards. She then landed on the asphalt on her right side. Her terror turned to anger as she confronted the driver who then, freaked out by what he had just done, drove away from the scene of the accident.

     For three months she had been working with a massage therapist and a chiropractor. Her masseuse left the practice, hence her search for someone else to continue therapy complementary to the chiropractor’s. As we talked, I observed Melissa’s anger. Three months after the accident she was still angry with the driver. The focus of her fear, though, had changed. At age 21, she was afraid she would never recover fully and would live in pain for the rest of her life.

     The initial session went well. Melissa scheduled several more. In the subsequent months of therapy, I discovered in practice what my teachers had told me over and over: integrative massage techniques can address issues resulting from trauma to soft tissue. Thus I used deep tissue massage, neuro-muscular therapy, and connective tissue techniques wrapped together in an organizing package of Swedish massage, and complemented by verbal therapies. I chanted, so to speak, a prayer of recovery as I worked deeply between her ribs, and inched my way into the anterior hip muscles deep in her abdomen. I stretched out shortened muscles in her neck and shoulder, speaking all the while about the body’s amazing power to heal itself. I released trigger point after trigger point in the tissue around her knees while engaging her in conversation about school and the direction of her artwork. I was pleased, even impressed, as I watched her heal.

     Certainly her healing was enhanced by massage. But this independent young woman didn’t need to remain dependent on others for pain relief. I demonstrated and encouraged her to practice some self-massage techniques for muscles in her face, neck, ribs, and abdomen. She did them at home and started setting her appointments farther and farther apart as she mended.

     I suspect Melissa will feel some pain in her neck, ribs, knees, and hips for the rest of her life. She will remember her accident whenever she is tired, and occasionally, she will revisit her feelings of terror, anger, and fear. But also, she will carry with her the memory of healing and of the simple, but not insignificant, part massage played in helping her muscles to mend. She will be able to apply simple techniques of self-massage when the pain is slight or seek further help from a massage therapist when the pain persists. 

God, help us see the complexity of the healing process. 

May we learn how to balance our acceptance of pain with our doing something about it. And in so doing, 

may we recognize your voice and touch. 

Amen.

Buffalo Ceremony by Phillip Hoyle after a group of Kansas petroglyphs

Table Talk: Macho Dos

Bear  painting by Phillip Hoyle

     Clients often do not want to tell their therapist about the pain they are experiencing in the massage, and when they do, their communications are sometimes hard to interpret. It took me quite a few massages to understand that when Richard laughs, I’m hurting him. With Tom, silence means all is well, but moans indicate pain. Some people scream or say “No,” but more folks seem to grit their teeth and bear the pain in silence. I imagine that they lie there chanting over and over to themselves, “No pain; no gain. No pain; no gain....”

     One evening Sergio called. “Can you work on my brother-in-law?” he asked. “He fell at work and hurt his leg.”

     “Sure, but you come with him because I’ll need a translator,” I replied.

     Juan, Sergio’s brother-in-law from Mexico, had fallen off a ladder while painting a house. His facial expression and his noticeable limp while climbing the stairway indicated that he was in a great deal of pain. I examined his leg, compared it with the other. There was no bruise or significant swelling, but Juan winced at my touch. I began working in Swedish mode, knowing I would apply deeper pressure to his injured leg if he could bear it. I warmed up the tissue near the injury employing a variety of strokes and explained, while Sergio translated, what I hoped to do. Since I would have to work deeply, I taught a monitoring system so the work wouldn’t cause unnecessary pain. I asked Juan to respond to my inquiries with a number on a scale from one to ten. One, uno, indicates pressure with no pain; ten, diez, indicates way too much pain, “get out of there now.” My training considers numbers between four and seven to be therapeutic. As I worked, I asked periodically, “¿Que numero?”

     Juan answered, “Uno.” Again he replied, “Uno.” Still again, “Uno.” 

     I was a bit surprised at his tolerance for the pain. As I began working right at the point of injury I asked, “¿Que numero?”

     With a ragged voice he barely croaked, “Dos.”

     “Oh,” I exclaimed, laughing gently, “¡Macho dos!”

     Sergio almost fell off his chair in a fit of laughter. An embarrassed Juan amended his numero. “Ocho,” he admitted. I lightened my touch slightly to lower the pain level and continued to work, but I wondered whether I would ever know how much this work hurt my client.

     My colleague and friend Tony gave me a massage. He worked deeply, but I didn’t feel pain as his elbow hooked into my lower trapezium muscle and then as it bumped over my rhomboid minor muscle. I was surprised since this move often causes a high level of pain in my clients. Why the difference? I’m not quite sure, but some of my clients, like myself, don’t feel much pain at all. Other people, like Juan, bear high levels of pain out of some notion of self-image.

     Still others feel intense pain but really seem to like it. I realized one client had grabbed onto the legs of the massage table and was hanging on as if for dear life while bearing extreme pain. He seemed to love the pain I didn’t intend to give. When I noticed his grasping of the table, I lightened my pressure. Another client told me, after our second deep tissue session, “Phil, I’m really starting to like the pain.”

     I hope he was only kidding. My intention is to reduce pain. I don’t like to cause my clients discomfort, but I am capable of it and not unwilling to do so when I believe the painful work may actually prove beneficial. The big problem is that similar pressure doesn’t feel the same to different clients. The client must monitor the pain since one person feels uncomfortable, another one is in unbearable agony, and still another one is not registering any pain at all.

     In general, I want my clients to become more aware of their pain so they can do things to prevent or relieve it. Sometimes they can correct their posture, learn relaxation, and otherwise help themselves. I want them to learn self-treatment--how to massage themselves and how stretch their muscles. To accomplish such goals, the client and the therapist must work as a team, cooperating and communicating. I want them to think about themselves in order to discover what they can do to lessen their own pain, both during the session and in the weeks that follow it.

     Juan was in pain. I didn’t want to cause him more. My goal was to get the muscles out of spasm and to increase circulation in them so they could heal more readily. I hoped to lower pain in the area through the treatment of any trigger points that might have formed in the muscles from a prior accident. I was sure the work would cause additional discomfort, but if he would monitor me, I could keep the pain within a therapeutic range. I needed Juan’s help. When he finally gave me realistic responses, I was able to adjust my pressure and work carefully and appropriately in the affected area. Juan helped me, and in so doing, increased the effectiveness of the massage.

Brown and Black
painting by Phillip Hoyle

People of all kinds and sizes and with all kinds of expectations come for massage. Some want pain; others want only the softest touch. Both types of massage can be effective in dealing with pain. I figure whether I'm dealing with a grizzly bear or the gentlest black bear on my table I know I can help them with their pains. Actually I find the factor of the unpredictable in massage keeps me alert. You never know what kind of work will be called for to help your client.

Table Talk: On Edge

Sage Advice Giver painting by Phillipl Hoyle

     Often, when giving a massage, I walk along an edge. I teeter on a ridge of feeling making judgments about touch and technique, hoping to make them appropriately. For me, the experience relates to choices I make in response to the feel of tissue, the hardness of muscle, or reactions of the client to what I am doing. I am aware that with my use of massage techniques I can bring help or harm, healing or hurt. The knowledge keeps me walking on the edge.

     The client, too, may experience an edge. The source of the edginess may be the touch of a new therapist, the need to retain or relinquish control of the body, or simply the stress that led him or her to the table in the first place. The experience of uncertainty can evoke new feelings and a new sense of the body. It sometimes raises issues and invites dynamic growth and self-realization. Massage may take a client to an edge of experience and possibility.

     Sue came for massage at the recommendation of a friend. She had never received a massage before. As a young person, she seemed to be looking for new experiences and entered the session with confidence. I gave her a rather vigorous Swedish massage. She liked it well enough to schedule another one for the next week. I worked more deeply during the second session. My response to the tightness in her shoulders produced a continuing result. When she returned for her third massage she told me about awaking during the night after her second massage. For the first time in her life, she could actually sense her back without touching it with her hand or rubbing it against the mattress. Massage had given her a new sense of her body, one that acknowledged this hard-to-see part of herself. She was thrilled.

     When Sue showed up for her first massage, I was aware that she might be uneasy. She was going to take off her clothes and be alone in an apartment with a man she had met only one time before, when our mutual friend introduced us. I was going to work on a young woman, giving her a first experience of massage. I had worked on women’s bodies--my wife’s many times over many years and those of women students of massage over the prior few months. I was not afraid of her body and did not experience it as a temptation, but I did see this work as a responsibility. I would influence Sue’s relationship to massage in the future, and I had the potential to help her in relationship to how she viewed and valued her own body.

     This latter responsibility was taught me, in part, by being reared with my four sisters and, later, by living with my wife and my daughter. Their complaints, confidence, and fears, expressed many times and in a variety of ways, helped me realize that the manner in which I related to Sue’s body had the distinct possibility for hurt or health. Certainly my words would affect her, but mostly, I would communicate through the way I touched her. My loving touch could respect her body and her sense of modesty, inviting muscular responses that would lead to relaxation and relief. Eventually, the massages could encourage postural changes that might relieve back and shoulder strain. I hoped that my work would help Sue feel her own body differently so she could make changes that would have a long-term beneficial effect. I wondered how I would be received.

     I recalled a workshop in which I was learning Sufi dancing. Our teacher encouraged us to look at one another with “soft eyes.” She didn’t want us exchanging hard looks, calculating leers, or flirting glances. We were to gaze at one another as if we were looking at all humanity, celebrating grace, compassion, and acceptance. I wanted my massage to be similar to the dances: experiences for my young client that conveyed my acceptance of her, that communicated my love of humanity, and that invited her into a life of health and relaxation. I was pleased to be involved in a positive experience as Sue’s muscles loosened. She found the massage beneficial and returned for more. The work was going in a good direction. Her new sense of body awareness was gratifying to both of us. We were able to walk successfully along an edge of experience and growth.

Walker by Phillip Hoyle

Grandmother Spider, like the image at the beginning of this post, in any number of Native American Stories advised various heroes of dangers and gave them powers to be safe as they fulfilled their tasks. I listen to the advice of my teachers, but sometimes in massage I feel like the lone walker to the left who, if one could view the whole cliff wall would see he is walking among bears. 

In short, while massage is a wonderful occupation, a fine service to offer to folk in pain, for any number of reasons the massage therapist is often walking along a very narrow margin of confidence. Like any other service, it may help or hurt.

Table Talk: Spaced Out

Was someone asking to see the soul?

See, your own shape and countenance....

Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

     Spaced out. That’s how I felt after experiencing my first professional massage--plain spacy. I couldn’t really focus on what I was doing. I seemed to have lost any sense of direction and future. I was just there, feeling strange, wondering about the sensation. It probably was a good massage. Then, I had little way of judging, and now, the memory of the massage is not so acute. I stumbled to the shower room, washed my body thoroughly, and enjoyed the cedar-scented lotion provided in a shower-side dispenser. I found my companion, and we made our way out to a forest-surrounded hot tub. The total experience contained new sensations, but mostly I felt dopey, unable to focus, and not really caring to concentrate.

     My second professional massage a couple of years later also left me feeling a bit spacy, but this time I had a new experience that changed my perception of massage. The therapist asked if I wanted her to focus on any particular muscles. “Yes,” I surprised myself in answering. “Could you concentrate on my hands and forearms?” In the past months I had been practicing piano scales and arpeggios, writing a book, and playing computer games; and my right hand hurt. The pain and tightness mostly affected the back of my hands and my forearms. The therapist, a woman in her fifties who had studied with several celebrated teachers in Massachusetts and who brought years of experience to the massage, worked deeply in the area using what she called an interactive massage technique. She seemed to dig into and between the muscles while I kept my elbow moving slowly and slightly. A couple of times I thought I’d jump right off her table, but wanting the relief, I stayed put, bore the pain. To my utter amazement, I had no pain for three and a half months following the massage. I gained great flexibility that lasted long enough for me to realize I needed to change my habits. I didn’t want to recreate the pain and restriction in my arms and hands. My therapist’s effective work changed massage for me. No longer was it simply a luxury item that left me feeling spaced out. Oh, I felt like I was floating all right. I could hardly walk and had to sit in the sun for a while before taking a chance on driving the car. But I realized that massage could take away pain and help one regain full use of a limb. And three months later I was still amazed that the immediate effect of the work lasted. Massage became for me something serious and health-related in ways I had never before imagined. The spaced out feelings brought me into the present with no worry about what lay ahead; getting rid of pain helped prepare me for an amazing future in my own massage career. What wonderful and simple gifts I have received from massage.

Pas du Trois, painting by Phillip Hoyle

These bears painted under the influence of an Osage Indian petroglyph

express the kind of exuberance I experience when I see a person

regain ease of movement and the absence of pain. 

I want to to join them in a dance of joy.