It is that season, the season where we turn inward to re-awaken our sense of self.
The days darken early, and even the world around us reveals its bones –- the naked tree limbs that stretch against the sky, the patch of ice that in its very stillness reflects the universe.
It is in this spirit, the spirit of reflection that I offer you the following lyrical essay that I wrote about a little place called MOYO.
I hope you enjoy it and remember to use this winter time to reconnect with your “self.”
the yoga studio
They come in the early evening for yoga, carrying red, purple, green rubber mats,
tight-rolled, banded in silk made from Indian saris.
They come in black pants and tie-dyed headbands,
carrying their water canteens;
browsing in the gift shop before class,
chatting over hand-rolled sandalwood incense, semi-precious gemstone malas,
neti pots, China gel, gypsy bags,
amethyst crystals strung on leather cords.
They put boots on the raw wooden rack,
hang jackets on pegs,
unroll mats and bodies on the wooden studio floor;
In the back room, I prepare for massage,
lighting the crimson pillars around the Buddha’s head; warming the bed; steaming the towels; scenting them with essential oils — lavender, lemongrass, eucalyptus
I offer a prayer to Shivago, the father doctor, in the language of Pali,
Na-a Na-wa Rokha Payati Vina-Santi
May this healing medicine encircle the world . . .
I direct the words into my breath, my heart, and my hands.
When my client arrives, I place my fingers on her, traveling a different landscape; eyes closed, I will press here, there, feel the subtle beat of pulse and hard bone, strum against the cords that bind this body, down the lamina groove, over the erector spinae muscles, C-7 to the thoracic spinous processes, to the lumbar’s secondary curve, down to the fish-shaped sacrum, and then separate hands to trace each iliac crest.
Little lumps of hard fascia poke through her tissue, bits of cold butter against my palms.
I rub muscles; effleurage, petrissage, jostle, hold, compress, using knuckles, forearms and fists
until she melts on this river of herself.
Sounds rise from outside the door. The yoga students depart with flushed, perspiring faces, and call out cheerful goodbyes,
the gentle click of the door between this world and that one.
But no matter, it is all ways, you, always you, under your own hand.
Patti Kinsey CMT, LMT Massage Therapist
