I just did. I wanted a massage. Badly. Days ago, I had hauled body parts – shoulders, legs, whole pelvic area – from unconscious oblivion into wide-awake, earthy, full-throttled consciousness. They wanted a welcome greeting, they clamored to be touched.
I had tried and failed to get appointments, one urgently needed by husband with acute lower back pain. Masseur fully booked. Two slots together surely impossible. I take one, a month ahead.
Today’s the day. Masseur gets lost on the dirt road toward the sea. Arrives. Young. Slim. Energetic. Black athletic outfit. Fully-fledged physiotherapist.
Instals his table. Knows, loves what he’s doing. Curiously long-fingered hands, smooth and knowing. Explains. Contracted pyramidal. Parcours of the sciatic nerve. I watch and learn how I can help with greater precision. Talk about energy. The stoics, 2nd century A.D. were the first to figure out that we can cure ourselves mentally, he says. Then, in the 17th century…
I like massages in complete silence. This one appears to work differently.
Hub feels renewed. I book two slots: first available in a months time.
When I open WhatsApp, there’s his page, from when he called, lost. I see a written message, not noticed before.
Had a cancellation. Client had to be taken to hospital. Would it be ok if I come one hour earlier?
There had been also my crazy little inner voice that’s always coming up with fun ideas, mostly off-the-wall as far as hub’s concerned. It had whispered: send the guy a message: in case you have a cancellation…
The Universe honors our vital desires.
Goes out of its way. I sit dumb, sleepy, untrusting by the wayside.
Anyway got up at 7 a.m. of) to do a bit of yoga (idem). And to post this.