Oh, what a wonderful couple of weeks together we’ve had! I’m really going to miss you and the blissful state that you induce in both my body and my mind. I promise to continue practicing relaxation while we’re apart and please know that I can hardly wait to unwind with you again soon!

Love,
Shannon

———-

Last week my friend Kirsten, a fellow massage therapist, called to see if I’d be interested in receiving Transformational Neuromuscular Therapy treatments from her once a week for the next ten weeks. I figured, hey, why not? I’m getting massage for 52 weeks straight. Ten weeks is only a fraction of the total time. Since I don’t have a specific outline for this project and I’m kind of just letting myself go where the project takes me, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity placed before me. Moving in the direction of a more therapeutic style of massage than what I’ve recently been receiving might be a good thing for me to explore anyhow.

The type of neuromuscular bodywork that Kirsten practices originated at the local massage school here in Crested Butte. The founder of the school, Craig McLaughlin, created the technique after studying with a variety of different teachers and working as a massage therapist for many years. It’s the same technique that I received from Becky, a student of his, during the very first week of this project. Apparently Transformational Neuromuscular Therapy can either be applied in just one session or as part of a ten-week series through which the muscles of the entire body are treated in sequence. Learning about my weekly massage project, Kirsten became excited at the prospect of assessing how ‘transformational’ her neuromuscular therapy technique actually is.

While I’m really looking forward to the therapeutic work, I have to admit—I’m kind of sad to not receive the general relaxation massage that I’ve been enjoying these past few weeks. I know. Can you believe I just said that? It’s funny, because for the first few weeks of the project I felt very adamant that massage needed to be ‘therapeutic’ in nature in order to be beneficial. But now, I entirely disagree. I kind of love relaxation massage—it’s so frickin’ relaxing!

Nine weeks into this project, I can clearly feel the benefits of relaxation massage. Beyond just getting a massage each week, I feel like I’ve been going to relaxation practice. Relaxation, like any other technique you use on your body, takes training. Training builds muscles as well as muscle memories. When the body does any activity consistently, the brain lays down neural pathways so that the activity becomes easier over time. Learning to relax is just like learning any other activity, whether it’s riding a bike, reading, or playing a musical instrument. It just takes practice.

The benefits of my eight-week relaxation training are already apparent. Now when I feel stressed out or uptight, the first thing I think to do is to get a massage—simply so I can relax. It’s intriguing to me how quickly my body and mind have learned to unwind. Relaxation provides such a pleasurable experience that I’d even say that I frequently crave it. Sometimes, in the middle of the day, I unexpectedly find myself daydreaming about relaxation. Without a doubt, of all the things I’ve ever had to practice, it is by far the most enjoyable and very well could be my all-time favorite. While massage has provided the initial means for relaxation, I sense that I will be relaxing independent of massage in no time at all.

I think the Transformational Neuromuscular Therapy sessions with Kirsten will be a great experience and I am definitely looking forward to them. But, my goodness, am I going to miss my relaxation massage. Hopefully, if things work out perfectly in my favor, Kirsten will apply the techniques in a manner that is both therapeutic and relaxing. Then I can have the best of both worlds!

I love Crested Butte. It’s this magical town out in middle-of-nowhere Colorado. There’s only one paved road leading into town. The nearest ‘bigger’ town is Gunnison, Colorado, which is thirty miles due south. The town of Crested Butte is at an elevation of 8,995 ft. and consists of an eight block by eight block grid filled with colorful homes and unique businesses. The speed limit in town is 15 mph and the only major intersection is a four-way stop. Town bikes definitively outweigh the number of cars here and, if you stand anywhere in town and spin a full 360-degrees, you realize that massive majestic mountains entirely surround you. Each and every view is breathtaking.

Coming from the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, Crested Butte is certainly my idea of heaven. Having always loved the outdoors (camping, fishing, biking and hiking) and growing up amidst the limited landscape and adverse weather of Cleveland, I find Crested Butte to be one big giant playground. Miles and miles of trails and rivers and mountains are available for exploration on a daily basis. The 273 days of sunshine aren’t too bad either. Every day I wonder how I ever managed to stumble upon a place as fitting for me as this.

I often wonder the same thing about massage. How is it that I am fortunate enough to have ended up in a profession as wonderful as massage?

Well, I can tell you it certainly wasn’t from putting my Yale degree to use.

Most people don’t know this, but Yale University is actually a feeder school for massage programs around the country.

No.

Really.

Okay. Not really. Actually, Yale is a feeder for medical school, law school, business school, investment banking, and a variety of other graduate programs and career fields—but massage most definitely is not one of them.

When I went back to Yale for my five year college reunion and told my classmates, most of whom were currently involved in the aforementioned fields, that I had just graduated from massage school, I got some pretty funny looks.

Apparently going to Yale and then going to massage school is not a typical career path.

Back in 2001, I graduated from Yale with a degree in art, specifically in graphic design. I spent the majority of my senior year (with the exception of all the hours logged in the swimming pool) working on graphic design projects, glued behind a computer screen and stuck in a computer lab late at night. Not my idea of fun. As much as I loved graphic design, I really did not prefer the tangible nature of the work.

Around my last month of school I finally began imagining what it would be like to work as a graphic designer on a daily basis. I don’t know why I waited so long to think such things through, it certainly would have been beneficial to imagine such details my sophomore year, back when I picked design as my major, but that’s just how it happened. So, I started to think about working behind a computer at a desk in a cubicle in an office from 9 to 5 every day of the week. And I imagined making artwork for things that I didn’t really care about but had to produce stuff anyhow because that’s what I was getting paid to do. And then I thought about how the fact that you’re taking money for your artwork means that you actually have to give the client what he wants even if you think what he likes is completely hideous and stupid. He’s paying you. You’ve got to do it.

So I said, “To hell with it.” I am not spending a single day of my life working as a graphic designer. Right then and there—before I ever even got started—I quit.

And at the moment, without knowing where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be, I made a commitment to finding work that I felt passionate about; work that provided a balanced lifestyle; work that allowed me to be creative and physically active; and most importantly, work that allowed me to help others.

Just like that, I resolved to spend the following five years searching for the perfect job, each year trying something different and new. After five years, I would pick something and stick with it.

If you think I have a laundry list of bodily injuries, just wait until you hear my even longer laundry list of jobs. Ready?

• Year 1: I built houses with the Greater Cleveland Habitat for Humanity as an Americorps National Service Member. My long-standing interest in architecture inspired me to give building homes a shot. While I felt good about helping families, I also learned that construction work is really, really physically exhausting. During that same year I also explored the possibility of becoming a social worker while volunteering with the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center on their 24-hour hotline.

• Year 2: Imagining that I might want to be a teacher like my father, I tutored students with the “I Have A Dream” Foundation of Boulder County while completing a second year of Americorps National Service. I concluded that school systems are inherently frustrating and that it’s hard to fix all the problems that kids’ parents should be taking care of at home.

• Year 3: Thinking that outdoor education might be a better fit, I moved to Crested Butte for the winter and taught snowboarding. Then, wanting some down time from life and some time alone to think things through, I left Crested Butte in the spring to hike the Appalachian Trail. For three months I lived in the woods and walked a total of 1,174 miles (the whole trail is 2,174 miles). Despite endless hours of hiking by myself, I never figured anything out.

• Year 4: I relocated to Bellingham, Washington to live near a guy I met on the trail. I thought about going back to school to become a Naturopathic physician, which led me to work for a short period as a caregiver for senior citizens (this was a pivotal job that initially inspired my interest in massage school—more on that in a moment). Being extremely underpaid as a caregiver—I mean, extremely underpaid….I made about $4 an hour—I returned to Crested Butte and taught snowboarding for a second winter. Then, I moved to Vermont in the spring to apprentice on an organic farm for the summer.

• Year 5: At this point, completely lost and not knowing what else to do with myself, I entered massage school, skeptical that it would actually be something that would turn into a career.

But it did. Almost five years later, with only a few minor detours, I am still happily practicing massage.

As I mentioned before, I initially became interested in massage while working as a caregiver.

I remember my very first client. His name was Charlie. He was dying of cancer and had two weeks to live when I met him. The agency that I worked for assigned me to stay with him overnight at his home and keep him comfortable. He lived in a small house. Closing my eyes now I can still see the burnt orange tile floors and abundance of plants that filled the open living room and kitchen area. Because Charlie could barely move, his bed had been relocated to the living room, making it easier for him to access the bathroom. Bottles of pills and vitamins lined the kitchen counter. A variety of organic foods filled his refrigerator even though he could barely eat or drink. This was a new experience for me—I had never worked so closely with someone dying before.

Charlie slept most of the time I spent with him. Occasionally, when he was awake, we’d listen to jazz music or he’d tell me stories of his life. I looked at the pictures he had hanging on the walls and imagined him as a younger, more vibrant man. He was quite handsome and vaguely resembled a youthful Fidel Castro. I imagined the different places he may have traveled to; the hobbies he had; the relationships he had engaged in. Here he was, now, lying on his deathbed.

The process of his departure was by no means easy or physically comfortable. Even with the concoction of painkillers prescribed by the doctors, it was still obvious that Charlie suffered from a great deal of physical pain. His body often shook viciously with fits of coughing as his lungs ejected phlegm and blood into the tissue in his hands. Sometimes these coughing bouts lasted five to ten minutes and Charlie would be left completely drained from the physical exertion.

My responsibility, as his caregiver, was to make him as comfortable as possible. Not really knowing what else to do during his periods of extreme discomfort, I started rubbing Charlie’s back. I had witnessed his family members doing the same thing and it appeared to help calm him down and ease some of his pain. I think me rubbing his back initially surprised him, but then he would just sit there, on his bed, hunched forward with his head hanging low and say “thank you.”

Rubbing his back was the only thing I could do to let him know that I was right there with him; that I was present to his final moments of life; and that through my touch we were connected as human beings in this inescapable cycle of life.

Charlie passed away a week or so after my last night of working with him. And while I only knew him very briefly, our time together made a lasting impact on my life. Not only did he show me the power of human touch, but as cliché as it sounds, Charlie’s passing confirmed that death comes for everyone at some point. And since you never know when it’s going to come, you’ve got to live it up right now.

So—here I am, back at home in Crested Butte, giving massages and getting massages. Living my dream.

I get it now. Relaxation. It’s not a sleepy feeling. It’s not a tired feeling. It’s not even grogginess. It’s a complete sense of calm. A looseness. A melting sensation, which is what I’m feeling right about now as I dissolve into the couch in my boyfriend’s living room and stare off into space. I’m not quite sure how I ended up on the couch after my massage. I just know that in this moment I’m entirely comfortable and there’s nowhere else my body and mind want to be. Right here. Right now. Life is good.

It kind of took me by surprise, that sneaky relaxation thing. I chatted and chatted away for the first half of my massage about how my chest muscles have been tight for months now and several ribs are bothering me and causing chest pain and my lower back gave out again three days ago which made it nearly impossible to sleep at night. And, about the shortness of breath I’ve been feeling because of my ribs, which is now causing me to have mild anxiety attacks, which is probably also being aggravated because I haven’t been eating three solid meals a day or exercising or stretching or doing any of the things that make me feel good. Yep. That’s how my massage started (embarrassing as it is).

And then . . . I shut up. About halfway through the massage I just quit talking. I don’t know why. Maybe I was out of things to say. Maybe I got tired of hearing my own babbling voice. Maybe the calm in my body took over and stilled my racing mind. All I know is that I no longer felt the need to say anything and that the physical pleasure of relaxation slowly overtook my body, and then my mind, and then I really, truly couldn’t speak a word. All I could do was feel.

So that’s what I did. I lied there and felt the melting and stillness take over. Muscle by muscle. Breath by breath. Cell by cell. Relaxation pressed forward and I surrendered.

A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h-h-h.

Unfortunately, he also likes to sing in the shower, displays a PEZ dispenser collection on his bookshelf, decorates his apartment with numerous plastic dinosaurs, maintains a comic book collection that fills a solid sixth of his back room, and is intrigued with anything sci-fi. Clearly, he has got to go.

At least, that’s what I firmly believed this past Tuesday. After thorough consideration and significant Internet research, I determined that his quirks, which were beginning to irritate me after our first month of sharing a space, outweighed all the wonderful things about him. Our six-month, long-distance relationship simply had to end. I couldn’t put up with the shower performances for a single day more.

Which is why I neglected to schedule a professional massage for myself this week. I spent three whole days deliberating over the break-up. Monday I thought about doing it, Tuesday I went ahead and did it, and then spent all of Wednesday seriously thinking about undoing it. And during that entire time I didn’t think once about scheduling my weekly massage.

Oh, but the story does not end here. I did, in fact, manage to maintain my commitment to getting a weekly massage, although not quite consistent with the initial terms of the project. By Wednesday night my boyfriend and I had talked things over and, with his amazing propensity for patience and understanding (because, as I’ve duly noted, he’s pretty much perfect), he took me back. As I came to my senses and felt relieved knowing that I hadn’t yet managed to lose the man of my dreams, I suddenly realized that there was no way I’d be able to trade a professional massage in the next day or two. So, with my sweetest face, I asked my marvelous man if he’d be willing to give me a massage this week.

I crack up as I write this because whose boyfriend enthusiastically agrees to give them a massage? I mean we’re talking professional massage here. Not a “we’re-gonna-get-it-on-let-me-warm-you-up-a-bit-babe massage” or a “will-you-please-rub-my-back-for-a-few-minutes massage.” I fully intended to set-up my table, show him a few tips, and let him do his best. How many men do you know are willing to give their girlfriend, a trained massage therapist at that, a full massage? I can’t imagine there are very many out there who would agree to such a ridiculous and undoubtedly vulnerable arrangement.

Of course, my boyfriend agreed with a big, wide gap-toothed grin!

So, that’s how I got my massage this week. My boyfriend did his very best to massage my back, along with the back of my legs. He coated his hands with my massage oil and played around with a few Swedish techniques. When he hit certain muscles, I taught him a deep tissue technique or two. Other times, he’d just make up techniques of his own. While the experience didn’t compare to a professional massage, I’d say overall he did a really good job. He has a great sense of touch, never applying to little or too much pressure, and his strokes are even and smooth. If he had another therapist working next to him, showing him what to do, I firmly believe he’d give a massage as good as any new professional.

But, as good of a job as he did, I have to admit (dearest boyfriend, I hope you understand that I think you’re fantastic even as I write this) that if you want a massage effective in relieving pain and enhancing relaxation, you’ve got to hire a pro. There’s just no way around it. While I enjoyed everything my boyfriend did, I could feel that he lacked the requisite skills to give a flowing, therapeutic massage. His techniques certainly felt nice, but what his massage lacked was the ability to know precisely where to apply the massage (which requires a knowledge of human anatomy), what techniques to apply, and how to apply such techniques in a way that feels calming to the nervous system overall.

And he would be the first to admit it. After my boyfriend massaged me for roughly fifty minutes, I turned the tables and gave him a seventy-five minute massage. The first thing he said, probably twenty minutes in, was that he suddenly appreciated how much a professional massage therapist knows. And, that through the process of giving me a massage, it was very clear to him that massage was a skill that required extensive training and practice.

Thus, I conclude with the morals of this week’s story: singing in the shower is not sufficient grounds to break-up with your boyfriend and massage professionals really do know what they’re doing–with regards to massage that is!

This week puts me in Berkeley, California. I’m visiting my boyfriend for a few weeks and am still doing my best to stick to the weekly massage routine.

My boyfriend is an exceptionally lucky man. He works for Clif Bar and Co., the company that makes yummy, organic energy bars and other helpful products that maintain your energy levels during outdoor activity. One major perk his company offers is subsidized massage for all employees. Here’s how it works: Clif Bar employs massage therapists on site every day of the week. If an employee wants a massage they just schedule it directly, and then only pay the therapist half price. It’s entirely acceptable to schedule it during the workday. My boyfriend pays $15 for a 25-minute massage and $30 for a 50-minute massage. Clif Bar pays the massage therapist a flat hourly rate to make up the difference.

What a deal for both the therapists and the employees! One of the challenges working as a massage therapist is handling an inconsistent workload, especially when you’re just beginning your practice. Clif Bar takes the inconsistencies out by paying their therapists a flat rate for their time, whether they are giving a massage or not. Plus, on top of the pay from Clif Bar, the therapists receive payment from the employees when they actually do give a massage. That’s a massage therapist’s dream come true, not to mention the benefit of working for a really cool, environmentally and socially responsible company. I wish they would hire me!

It’s also an exceptional benefit for employees. Everyone can afford 25-minutes of massage a week when it only costs $15! I mean, fifteen bucks! That’s a micro-brewed six-pack. That’s a new book at the bookstore. In Crested Butte, that’s a burrito and margarita at Teocalli Tamale or maybe a new winter hat. There are plenty of other things that most of us drop fifteen bucks on and don’t even think twice about it. Fifteen dollars is nothing for twenty-five minutes of massage heaven.

Anyhow, because of this, my boyfriend has become a bit of a massage junkie, booking a massage at least once each week, as well as developing friendships with the massage therapists at his office. That’s how I met Julie. In an effort to be supportive of my project, my boyfriend gave her a heads up that I would be coming to town for a few weeks and asked her if she would be interested in trading massages with me. She agreed.

Now to be honest, with regards to the financial side of the deal (or lack there of), I’m not all that crazy about trading with other therapists, especially those that I don’t know. When I lived in Vermont, I frequently traded massage with some of my friends from massage school. In that environment, I felt very comfortable just calling them and asking to trade. We were friends. I’d help them out. They’d help me out. It was a relatively easy, agreed-upon exchange. However, calling someone I don’t know and asking to trade is a completely different story. I feel cheap. I fear the therapist won’t feel valued. In all honesty, I just feel way more comfortable paying.

However, taking the money factor aside, I must say that I love trading massages. I love seeing other therapist’s spaces. I love discovering what color they’ve painted their walls; if their room is large or small; if their room is dark and windowless or light and airy; if their space is lit by corner lamps, overhead lights, or natural light. I love finding one office decorated in a clinical style, with anatomy maps of the human body hanging on the walls, only to discover another therapist’s office feels new-agey, with artwork of chakras and a jar containing positive affirmations. I love seeing one space that is exceptionally clean and spotless, only to find the next therapist’s space a little bit untidy. Every individual space, as every individual therapist, is entirely unique and fun to discover.

I love hearing what types of music other therapists choose to play during sessions. I love feeling the different types of sheets against my skin. I especially love when a therapist has an incredibly soft blanket that I just want to stay wrapped up in way beyond the end of my appointment. I love discovering what types of oil or lotion the therapist chooses to use. I love the smell of the room, sometimes filled with the scent of burnt sage, other times dominated by a particular essential oil, most frequently lavender. I love the different intake forms that therapists employ to collect a client’s history. I love the random surprises I come across as a therapist unexpectedly wipes my feet off with a warm moist towel or applies heated oil to my back.

Far and away, the thing I love most about trading massage, is receiving the actual massage. As much as massage is a healing modality, it’s just as much an art form and every therapist has his or her own way of interpreting and applying it. Some therapists prefer long, flowing strokes. Some therapists are almost kind of pokey. Some therapists work quickly and aggressively. Other therapists work slowly with great focus. Some therapists breathe loudly while working, yet others you never even hear a single breath. Some therapists flow from one location on your body to the next, never stopping, dancing all around you. Other therapists work with no flow at all. Some therapists offer a two-dimensional massage (meaning they start with you prone, or face down, and then finish with you supine, or face up). Other therapists offer a three-dimensional massage — flipping you all around on the table as you start supine, then roll over onto one side of your body, return to supine again, lie prone for awhile, and finally end with you lying on your side again. Some therapists work methodically, applying the same number of strokes on each side of the body. Other therapists will focus on just one side of the body and save the other side for a future appointment.

Where I live, in Crested Butte, Colorado, there is a woman named Becca who runs a tiny little tea shop called ‘Your Cup’. Her shop, which she shares with a company that installs fireplaces, is a few steps off the main street and provides just enough room for three people to sit comfortably. Her walls are filled with teapots and mugs; a hanging chalkboard lists the current tea selections; a rack laden with all of her ingredients (aka tea leaves) hides behind her counter. I’m not much of a tea expert, so I don’t know for certain that what she is doing is remarkable, but in my limited history of drinking tea I believe she has the most imaginative selection of blends that I’ve ever encountered.

While trying to decide which teas to offer our clients after a massage, Sarah, my business partner, and I spent several hours one day at Becca’s tea shop tasting different blends of tea. First we tried Mint Mojito, then Chili Chocolate, followed by Green Sencha. I found myself sitting, waiting patiently for each pot to steep, noticing how steam evaporated off the stream of tea as it filled my mug, attempting to drink the tea as my lips told me it was most certainly too hot to drink, waiting a little longer, drinking the tea slowly, drinking it thoughtfully, tasting the different flavors in my mouth, feeling the different flavors in my mouth, finishing my mug, and then starting the process all over again, extremely eager to discover what delights the next pot would impart.

That’s exactly what getting massage from different therapists is like for me. It’s like being at the tea shop, feeling excited to try all the intriguing different choices on the menu, then actually getting to try them and discovering that each tea provides a completely different flavor and experience than the one before. It’s an all-around indulgent occasion for the senses.

But, I should get back to Julie, the Clif Bar massage therapist with whom I will be trading massage this week. My boyfriend kindly sets up the appointment for me and, knowing that I have no space to work out of, he informs me that Julie has agreed to let us use her space in the garden in her backyard. I am already intrigued.

I park my car in front of her house at 10 a.m. on a Thursday morning. I am new to Berkeley and the unfamiliar lushness of the landscape still fascinates me. Plants are green, flowers are blossoming, there are even lemons growing on trees in people’s yards. Lemons! It’s April in Berkeley, which in no way resembles April in Crested Butte (a place where lemons simply won’t grow at all, regardless of the time of the year). When I left Crested Butte only two weeks prior, several feet of snow still covered the landscape and daytime temperatures didn’t quite top 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Everything was still white. Here, in Berkeley, things are already green. Things are alive.

Julie lives in an old house that’s been divided into a duplex with one apartment on the first floor and one on the second. A worn wooden fence surrounds the front yard, which is overflowing with trees, shrubs, and flowering plants. I lift the latch on the fence’s door and slowly walk into the jungle, down a narrow cement path that follows the side of the house, ending up at a small porch with a large wooden door. Julie opens the door and greets me with a wide smile and warm eyes, gently inviting me inside her home.

I walk in mesmerized by the color. Every room is not only painted with a different hue; but the colors are bright yet soft, and the pieces within each room deliver a variety of colors as well. It’s a small living space, with an open bedroom in the front of the house to my right, the living room to my left, and a kitchen around the corner through a doorway. Huge windows stream light in, making it easy for me to see the intricacies of each room from where I am standing. Julie’s decorating style reminds me of a softer, and much less compulsive Martha Stewart. The furniture pieces are a mixture of antique and modern and there are children’s toys scattered on the floor alongside her 18-month old son. I love it. It feels cozy, light hearted, open, and soft. I could spend a solid hour just taking it all in.

Julie takes a moment to finalize plans with her mother-in-law, who is babysitting her son during our trade, and then she guides me through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the back door into the garden. More organized and maintained than the front yard, the backyard houses a vegetable garden, a variety of flowers, and a few assorted places to sit. At the far end of the backyard, covered with ivy and other greenery, a small one-room structure draws my attention. I realize that Julie and I are walking directly towards it. This must be her massage space.

She opens the door and I follow her inside. It’s tiny (not much bigger than the massage table), painted soft yellow, and really warm thanks to a small electric heater. A bookshelf and desk fill up the space on the wall to my left while the opposite wall contains several sparsely utilized shelves. Two walls have windows, which allow natural light to flow in through sheer, purple flower-print curtains. Having spoken with Julie now for several minutes, I can tell that the space is a perfect reflection of her. She is petite, smiley, and speaks in a soft, gentle voice. Her presence is calming, soothing and warm. I feel an overwhelming sense of being nurtured, even though I have yet to receive her massage.

In the situation of a trade, I love to receive massage first, and then give second. But, I don’t usually ask to receive first. I typically let the other person choose what works best for them and go along with it. To my delight, Julie suggests that she massage me first.

She leaves the room and I climb onto the table, under the sheets. She is away for several minutes. I take the opportunity to look around the room and take it all in. I scan the books on her shelf, noting which ones we own in common and which ones I’ve never seen before. I look at the stitching of the curtains hanging from the window and wonder if she sewed them herself. My gaze lands on a large shell filled with a dried sage bundle and I anticipate the smell of burnt sage. I feel at peace and I wonder if her massage will be consistent with everything I’ve experienced of her so far.

When Julie returns, she knocks quietly on the door to make sure that I am ready. She enters the room, walks towards the shell with the sage, and asks if I mind if she smudges the room. I don’t mind at all, and in fact love the smell of sage. After the smudging, she takes a moment to learn what I would like in my massage today. I tell her that my only request is that she doesn’t give me a full body massage and instead takes more time to focus on just one or two areas. My legs and lower back have been bothering me for the last week and I crave having them worked on. I get the sense that she understands my request and feel at ease knowing that there’s a good chance my body will get the attention that it needs.

I roll over onto my stomach and place my face in the cradle. My eyes are closed and the headrest presses firmly against my sinuses. I take a deep breath in and a long slow exhale out. Julie places her hands firmly on my back through the sheet. Her first touch is amazing: firm yet gentle; slow and sustaining; aware.

Julie undrapes the sheet from my back and places her palms against the skin of my upper back. She begins applying different strokes, in a style all her own, a blend of shiatsu and acupressure and other techniques she’s developed in her decade-long career. The strokes are firm but at just the right depth. They are mostly slow with quicker movements interspersed. She is a dancer, for sure, flowing and moving all around my back, calming my nervous system with each and every stroke. I take another deep breath in . . . followed by a sigh of relief. It feels so good to know that my body resonates not only with the experience she creates, but more importantly, with her touch.

As I lie on the table, relaxing with each and every stroke, my mind recalls some of the other massages I’ve received, both paid and traded. In fact, I realize as I lay there that I’ve had quite a few from a variety of different practitioners. During massage school alone, I received massage from a total of twenty-three other therapists. Outside of massage school, I’ve been worked on by at least twenty-two other practitioners. That means I’ve been massaged by a minimum of forty-five different people. That’s a collection of forty-five completely different massage experiences.

I think about a few of the people I’ve met who are committed to “their” massage therapist and are unwilling to try someone else. I imagine all the different experiences they are missing out on. The desire to stick with the therapist that you like makes sense to me in that massage is a financial commitment and you certainly want to pay for something you know you’re going to like. But, I imagine the variety of experiences someone misses out on if he or she only tries one or two therapists his entire life. Geesh. There are some entirely differenet yet really good therapists out there. You just gotta find ‘em.

While I certainly haven’t enjoyed each and every massage I’ve received (four of the massages I absolutely disliked), overall I’d say that 90% of my experiences receiving massage were positive. In fact, there are four therapists whose work I absolutely love; I remain forever grateful for having crossed paths with them. Sure, trying different massage therapists is risky. You most certainly will not always love or perhaps even like what you get. But I have to believe that it’s worth the risk of trying out ten therapists only to discover the one who absolutely rocks your world.

I bring my attention back to my body and delight in the massage that I am currently receiving. Julie has moved on to the back of my legs. She uses the same graceful and fluid techniques to release my hamstrings and calves. I relish each stroke that she makes. It’s always such a treat to discover a therapist who is wholly ‘your cup of tea.’

I had the strangest experience during my massage this week.

My boyfriend and I road tripped from Colorado to California this past weekend, stopping at different hot springs each night of the three-day drive. Our last night put us at a hot spring resort in California.

Mondays are the days that I receive my weekly massage, so we booked a couple’s massage with the hot spring’s therapists. My boyfriend requested deep tissue. I was excited to try Lomi Lomi, a traditional Hawaiian style of massage that I had heard of but had yet to ever receive.

The session started off fairly normal. The two therapists met us in the lobby and walked us to the treatment room. After a brief intake, they left the room so that we could get onto the tables. We both climbed under the sheets of our tables and eagerly awaited our massages.

I started the session lying face down. I usually leave my underwear on when I receive massage because it makes me feel more comfortable. However, because of the nature of the Lomi Lomi strokes, the therapist had recommended that I fully undress. Not a problem. I knew that I would be safely covered by a sheet or a large towel during the massage.

Both therapists returned to the room. My therapist walked over to the table, placed her hands on my back through the top of the sheet, made a few compressions to feel my muscles below, and then slowly pulled the sheet down, exposing my entire back. Next, she took a dry hot hand towel from a towel heater, folded it lengthwise, placed it on my back and then quickly slid it down over my bottom as she pulled the big sheet completely off. Whammy! I was basically naked. Only a sliver of a towel ran from my sacrum down to the table in between my legs. It was the most exposed I had ever been during a treatment.

Let me remind you that I grew up in a swimming pool. I don’t have an overload of body issues; you can’t be all that modest when you run around in a swimsuit for several hours a day. However, I have to admit, lying there nearly naked on the table waiting for a therapist that I had never met before to massage me was somewhat uncomfortable. I felt nervous. Exposed. I wanted my sheet back.

But, I let her proceed. There’s nothing like pushing your own boundaries.

In massage school, our teachers strongly emphasized the importance of knowing precisely where you are touching the body while you work. We carefully learned all the places on the body that simply should not be touched. These places were off limits for a variety of reasons: they were areas that didn’t feel good to get massaged; they were areas that were dangerous to massage due to the arteries, veins, or nerves that ran below the surface; or they were areas that were just plain inappropriate to massage due to their close proximity to sexual organs.

The side of the breast is definitely one such area. When women lie down on the table, if their breasts are large enough, a portion of the tissue will push out to the side. If you’re not careful, you can accidentally brush this area while you perform long, fluid strokes up and down the length of the back. It happens. I’ve done it on accident. Nearly every therapist has. But, whenever I’ve caught myself doing it, I’ve made extra certain not to do it again.

In the past, while receiving massage, I’ve had a therapist or two graze the sides of my breasts. It feels strange and typically catches me off guard. But, on the rare occasion when it has happened, the therapist had realized what she did and corrected the placement of her stroke (fortunately it has only ever happened with female therapists). I could always tell it was an honest mistake because my breast tissue was only lightly grazed once or twice in the session. I didn’t really think too much about it.

After this week’s massage, I can promise you that if a therapist places both palms flat against your upper back on each side of the spine, makes a long fluid stroke down your back and then firmly drags her hands back up over the lateral breast tissue and into your armpits a minimum of twenty times, you’ll think about it. It’s hard not to.

I’m not entirely sure if the therapist was aware of what she was doing, but she was basically massaging my breasts with each and every stroke. At first, I didn’t feel anything except extreme discomfort, but after five or six repetitions she had my body feeling sensations that only my boyfriend gets me to feel. And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

When it comes to sexuality in the workplace, I consider myself about as asexual as they come. With the stereotypes surrounding massage, I kind of have to be. When I tell people (men in particular) I’m a massage therapist, I’d say that a solid 75% of the time their response includes a grunt and some sort of statement typically including the words “Happy Endings.”

I have worked really hard to not let sexuality interfere with my massages. While most therapists can share ridiculous stories of the different come-ons and proposals that both male and female clients have made to them, in my four-year career I don’t have a single one. I attribute that to the fact that I REALLY don’t want anyone to ever say any sort of sexual come on to me while I’m massaging them. It’s gross and it’s just not what I do.

So I’m sure you can imagine how shocked I was when I found myself lying on a massage table feeling an entire mixed bag of feelings. Although the feelings ranged from remarkably uncomfortable to strangely pleasurable, I can say with certainty they were not even remotely relaxing. I didn’t know what to do. My distress emerged from the misplaced touch of a therapist who was clearly not obeying the boundaries of professional massage. Should I say something to let her know that she needs to be more aware of where she’s touching? Should I stick it out? At some point she will have to move on to the next body part.

I’m not very good at speaking up if something’s uncomfortable in a massage—even during massages that don’t feel inappropriate. I know. I really should be. I always ask my clients to let me know if something is uncomfortable or doesn’t feel right, or if there is anything I can do to make them more comfortable. I, however, can’t seem to do that myself. Once, I received a massage from a therapist who’s sharp fingernail dug into my skin on and off for the entire session. I never said a word. There is something so awkward and uncomfortable about speaking up for me. Most of the time, it’s just easier to wait it out (If you are reading this as a recipient of massage, please, please, please do not follow my example).

Such was the case this time. It was way too awkward of a situation for me to bring it up. Plus, my boyfriend and another therapist were in the room with us. I let the therapist finish working on my back in silence and did my best to block out when she touched the sides of my breasts. After that, she moved on to massage the back of my legs and then the remainder of my body.

The therapist did one other thing that contributed to my discomfort with her massage techniques. After she finished working on my back and my legs, she returned the sheet to cover my entire body. Then, she asked me to roll over onto my back. I had been lying face down. I now needed to lie face up so she could finish massaging the front of my legs, my arms and my neck. As I got ready to roll over, I felt her grab hold of the sheet. I anticipated her lifting it up off of my body just enough for me to roll over onto my back, usually a foot or two off of the table. But then, strangely, I felt a huge gust of cold air and opened my eyes to see that she had lifted the sheet entirely off of my body and held it vertically in front of her line of vision. I froze, convinced that she just made a mistake and accidentally lifted the sheet waaaaay to high and intended to return it to a reasonable height in a second. When she continued to hold the sheet in the same position for several moments, long enough for the therapist working on my boyfriend to get a good look at my entirely naked body, I realized that she actually expected me to roll over; that this was in fact her ridiculous way of holding the sheet .

What stands out the most to me after this – my most outrageous massage experience to date – is the issue of trust. As the recipient of massage, I trust my therapist to provide a professional service, encompassing both professional techniques and a professional atmosphere. I trust that my therapist has the appropriate education for the services she (or he) offers and will not perform any techniques that will harm me. I trust that she will maintain confidentiality regarding my medical history and what occurs in our sessions. I trust that she is aware of what it feels like to be vulnerable, lying on the table, and is empathetic to that while providing the massage.

Having experienced massage from the perspective of practitioner, I know that the therapist places a certain degree of trust in the client as well. I do trust that my clients will communicate with me throughout their session so that I can keep them as comfortable and as safe as possible (yes, I see the contradiction in my behavior. I’m working on it!).

However, knowing that many people, myself included, don’t speak up, I believe that it is first and foremost the responsibility of the therapist to always do her best to create a safe, professional environment. Looking back at the situation I found myself in this past week, one could indeed argue that it was my responsibility to speak up and say something when the therapist was not careful with her techniques. I agree. Had the situation been any more compromising, I certainly trust that I would have found a voice to do so. However, I believe that before it was ever my responsibility to speak up, it was the therapist’s responsibility to provide a professional, safe service. A therapist should never put her client in the situation I was in to begin with.

Full body massage is a tease. A therapist cannot possibly treat all the major muscles of the body in sixty minutes (especially when they’re as damaged as mine are). Even ninety minutes is simply not enough. In such a short period of time I find that each muscle just craves more touch, more attention, and never actually gets the focus that it needs. No matter how good each stroke feels; no matter how deep the pressure; it’s just NEVER ENOUGH!

Last week, my gluteus muscles got over an hour of massage—only my glutes. No other part of my body. And what happened? They released.

This week, my back, my neck, my hamstrings, my quadriceps, my upper arms, my forearms, my hands, and my feet all received just a weeee bit of massage. What happened? Nothing. Okay, maybe I felt a little bit sleepy and relaxed afterwards. But, really, I’m not sure that the texture of my muscles changed at all, because nothing really feels different.

I do think full body massage can work for some people. I’ve given massages to such people in my practice. They have little to no tension or adhesions in their muscles and, consequently, just a little bit of work on each area of the body is sufficient. Things relax. They feel relief. They’re good to go for a week, maybe even a month. I am quite simply not one of those people.

Focused massage work satisfies me. I can feel it. It’s tangible. It brings me into my body. I go to the depths of sensation, hang out there, feel the ache, feel the change, take a deep breath and feel the relief of knowing that things in my body are going to be different when I get off the table. When I receive specific massage work I get all sorts of crazy referral patterns (meaning when you press on one muscle it creates a sensation in an entirely different area of the body). When my IT band is massaged slowly, I feel a throbbing in the peroneal muscles of my lower leg. My upper back usually refers to my neck at the base of my skull. My quadratus lumborum (the muscle that runs from the back of the hip to the lowest rib) refers into my glutes. Everything is linked together like a spiderweb of muscular connectivity. It makes me feel somewhat alive and somewhat broken all at the same time.

Full body massage rarely gets specific. If you’re trying to cover the entire body in only one hour, there just isn’t time to get specific. Strokes are broad. Strokes are general. Referral patterns emerge and are quickly passed over. When I do feel referrals in a full body massage, they occur just as attention is already being given to another part of my body. Although a full body massage certainly feels good in the moment, and is undoubtedly calming to the nervous system overall, I’m skeptical of its ability to make significant changes in the muscle tissues.

Getting massages every week is very interesting for me. I get to see things from both points of view. Sometimes, while working as a therapist, I place expectations on myself to be able to help the person on my table release all their tension, or relax a certain muscle. When I was still a new therapist, I got really disappointed when things in that person didn’t change. But then I learned. It’s not my responsibility to make them change. I can only offer what I am able to offer. I can only be myself.  If who I am and what I do resonates with that person, then the treatments will work and they will come back. Looking for changes in my own body after a 60-minute massage might just be another way of placing those expectations right back on myself .

I’m an open-minded person. I’m getting a year of weekly massages and I’ve still got forty-nine to go. Perhaps after receiving more full body massages I will learn to love them. I certainly hope so.

I place my hands under my shoulders and push myself up into a seated position. Then I slowly lower one foot down at a time to the floor. As I come to stand the room spins around me. I feel really strange and disoriented. My vision closes in. The dizziness would make sense if Andrew had focused on my head, neck, or shoulders. But he didn’t. I just got seventy-five minutes of focused work directly on my behind.

Technically speaking, Andrew massaged all the muscles of the posterior pelvis: the gluteus muscles (maximus, medius, and minimus) and the lateral hip rotators (piriformis, gemellus superior, gemellus inferior, obturator externus, obturator internus, and quadratus femorus). Most people are pretty shy about receiving “glute work” (as we call it in the massage world). Unless you’re a stripper, having someone touch your behind is probably a relatively infrequent or perhaps even unwelcome incident; and one that most likely only happens with the person you are romantically involved with. After years of giving and receiving massages, it seems completely normal to me to get the muscles of the posterior pelvis massaged. I no longer make any sexual associations with the human behind because really it’s just a big, ole’ muscle that feels pretty darn relieving to have massaged. Not to mention that the muscles of the behind play a major role in lower back pain. I knew when I woke up this morning that it was what I wanted to focus on in my massage today.

As I get dressed and meet Andrew in the hallway I can feel how different my bottom feels. It’s not gripping. It actually feels relaxed. It’s a sensation that I can’t ever recall feeling. I’ve had glute work before, but never an entire session of just focused glute work. Usually the therapist integrates the glute work into the session while covering other areas of my body. I leave feeling relieved and relaxed, but I never feel as if my glutes have completely let go. This time, there is no tension left in either cheek! Andrew worked until every last muscle released. No one has ever done that before.

While standing and saying good-bye to Andrew, I can feel that my body wants to return to what is familiar, the old gripping tightness that I’ve maintained for the last twenty-one years. I close my eyes, focus on my breath and do my best to keep my backside relaxed.

Some therapists, myself included, believe that the muscles of the body are metaphors for our actions or beliefs in life. The gluteus maximus represents standing up right, stepping up, control and loyalty while the lateral hip rotators represent security, turning aside, changing directions, and stability in relating.

The metaphors of stepping up, standing up right and control put me right back on the end of a ten-meter platform (thirty-three feet high) about to complete a back one-and-a half somersault with two-and-a-half twists and wondering whether or not I’d be able to maintain control of my body throughout the dive. I was only 18 years old at the time, had just finished my freshman year at Yale, and was home for the summer in Cleveland training with my high school diving coach. My goal was to qualify for the U.S. National Championships on the ten-meter platform. In order to do so I had to learn several new dives. The dive I was about to attempt off the ten-meter platform was especially scary because I had crashed really hard while attempting a similar dive off of the seven-meter platform only a few months before. The crash happened while I was warming-up in a practice right before a meet. I had done this dive hundreds of times before; I was only doing it once simply to get my body and mind prepared. I don’t know how exactly it happened, but I got lost in my twist and suddenly completed 2 ¼ twists instead of 1 ½ twists, landing flat on my side on the water. The impact gave me a concussion and forced me to withdraw from the competition. The impact gave me fear.

While diving certainly left a fair amount of physical damage on my body, the emotional impact left the greatest scars. If I visualize myself on the diving board now I feel each and every one of the emotions I denied while diving. I recall the nerves that I pushed to the back of my mind as I pretended to be tough and fearless while standing at the end of a very high board attempting to learn a new dive. I feared landing on the water wrong and the consequent physical pain. Sometimes a smack might leave my back feeling as if it was on fire. Other times, it might feel like a million needles poking into every bit of my exposed skin. Or, it could just knock the wind out of me and I’d be frozen for a moment in time, aware that all I wanted to do was suck in air but couldn’t because I was in the middle of the pool surrounded by water. Even worse was the fear of hitting the board. In practices and competitions I had seen everything from fingernails split vertically as hands were smacked against the springboard, to shattered hand bones requiring surgery and pins to reconstruct them, to bleeding heels from the slightest scrape against the end of the board. I even witnessed one girl land with her whole face on the end of the three-meter board while performing an inward two-and-a-half in a competition.

And yet, despite those images playing out in my mind, I had to find a way to step up to the board, stand up right, do my dives, and maintain control of my body. And I had to do it again and again and again, dive after dive, whether I landed wrong on the water or not. There was no security in diving. Until I practiced a dive enough and my muscles memorized the action, I never really knew what was going to happen. Sometimes I’d land with my weight extremely far forward on the board and as a result I would be flung into the center of the pool. Sometimes I’d land with my weight shifted backwards and worry, in the split second it takes to complete a dive, that I’d hit the board. The takeoff determined how the rest of the dive was going to go. If I got a bad start, I knew right away that dive was not going to go well. If I got a good start — well, then maybe it would go okay. Diving was a balance—to not be too far away from the board yet not too close; to not over rotate or under-rotate; to try a new risky dive but to be consistent as well. It was like walking a tight rope every single day I entered the pool for practice.

I started diving at the age of nine. I’m pretty sure my posterior pelvis muscles have been tight ever since. The act of diving off a springboard, both forwards and backwards, utilizes all of the gluteus muscles. In the take off, the diver moves into a deep squat position in order to press the board down and propel herself into the air away from the board. That squat position requires great strength in the posterior pelvis. Additionally, when the diver lines up to enter the water, she squeezes every muscle in her body, especially the muscles around her hips. This action stabilizes her core, allowing her to enter the water safely and with minimal splash.

The muscles of my behind saw an incredible amount of work during those years that I dove. A typical practice consisted of anywhere from sixty to one hundred and twenty dives. I trained six days a week, eleven months a year, for two to three hours a practice. This went on for a total of thirteen years. From the age of seventeen to twenty-two, I added weight lifting to my routine and visited the weight room three days a week where I did multiple squats with weights. I never received one massage during that entire time.

Looking back, I feel the weight of the emotions I never let myself feel at the time.  I try to shake out of it, walking across the street to my office to pick up a few headrest covers for the chair massage session I have planned for the afternoon. But I still feel really strange. Kind of emotional. Kind of sad. I lie down on the massage table in my office for a moment so I can fully capture what’s coming up for me. Somehow I know that if I keep on moving these emotions will pass without me ever really feeling them. Maybe training six days a week from the time I was nine was, quite simply, too much. That trying these really scary dives was also too much. And that now, sitting here over twenty years later, having this emotional release from my massage, I am finally in touch with these feelings.

Getting in touch with these feelings is so difficult for me to do. I grew up with parents who were not emotionally expressive people. I was not fully aware that I even had emotions or that there were words to describe what I was feeling until I was twenty-six (I’m not even exaggerating), which was only four years ago.

Here on my massage table, I feel the sadness overwhelm me and I just want to cry. I’m not even really sure what about. I feel overwhelmed, stretched too thin, obligated to do too much. I feel as if I’ve been doing too much for too long. That it’s time for me to just say no. To take care of myself. To relax and to no longer hold myself up. To fall without fear. To feel at ease and at peace with the falling.

Ten years ago I could not have let go. I was training to be a champion. I had to hold it all together. I had to step up. I had to maintain control. My glutes kept me going.

It’s interesting to be at this place in my life where maybe I can fall and everything will still be okay. Maybe I can let go of every hope and expectation that I place on myself, and of the hopes and expectations that I imagine others place on me and just be at peace. Because nothing’s really that important. Life goes on, one day from the next. Whether you finish your list of chores or not. Whether you become champion or not. I don’t have to stand up right. I don’t have to control things. I can just let go. And in that, the muscles of my behind can let go, too.

She starts working on my left upper trapezius (the muscle that forms the hood at the base of the neck) close to the shoulder. As she applies pressure to a specific point on the muscle, I inhale and contract, then exhale and release. Once the muscle fully relaxes (in all honesty, I’m not too sure that mine ever really does), she moves on to a new location, just a small distance away from the previous point. Five contractions into treating the trapezius I find myself feeling slightly irritated, wanting to resist my present circumstances. Transformational Neuromuscular Therapy requires concentration and focus to not only make the movements, but to coordinate them with the breath as well. This will be no relaxation massage for me this morning. I must work for my wellness.

I continue to contract and release as she gradually works her way up the muscle to its attachment at the base of my skull. Each point she touches provides a different sensation. Some places create an ache; some places firmly resist her pressure; some places I feel nothing at all. After ten or so contractions of my trapezius, my left shoulder does feel looser, more relaxed–even, dare I say, at ease. The tension I’ve been holding onto dissolves. Somehow the repetitive physical effort results in relief. Being involved was worth the effort after all.

Now that my left shoulder feels more relaxed, I notice that my right shoulder feels unbalanced. Becky continues applying neuromuscular techniques to my left trapezius, only this time working in the opposite direction. Suddenly I am aware that my right trapezius has been contracting simultaneously with the left trapezius the entire time. Strange. No matter how hard I try, my right shoulder will not stay relaxed while the left shoulder engages.

I imagine the extra usage my right side gets if every time I do something with my left shoulder, my right shoulder acts. That means that the muscles of my right upper body are working twice as frequently as those on my left. They never get a break. I do an activity that requires involvement from the right side of my body and they work. I do an activity that requires involvement from the left side of my body and they work then too. The whole thing seems incredibly inefficient and the long-term effects dangerously unhealthy.

Thomas Hanna, author of Somatics: reawakening the mind’s control of movement, flexibility, and health, calls this phenomenon sensory motor amnesia (SMA) when there is a memory loss about how a muscle group feels and how to control it. As our bodies respond to daily stresses, our nervous system does its best to adapt and maintain equilibrium with specific muscular reflexes. These very reflexes that are only meant to help us often lead to the greatest pain. Hanna states:

These reflexes, repeatedly triggered, create habitual muscular contractions, which we cannot—voluntarily—relax. These muscular contractions have become so deeply involuntary and unconscious that eventually, we no longer remember how to move about freely. The result is stiffness, soreness, and a restricted range of movement. (Hanna xiii)

For most people sensory motor amnesia becomes apparent as they enter their thirties or forties. It is the beginning of what people often falsely believe are the effects of aging. Fortunately, because SMA is a learned adaptive response, it can also be unlearned, and thus reversed.

As Becky changes sides to focus on my right trapezius, I pay attention to what my left trapezius does. Unlike the right side, it remains relaxed throughout the contraction and release of the opposite trapezius. Phew. Only my right side suffers from sensory motor amnesia.

I lie on the massage table wondering if now, after diagnosing myself with SMA, I am capable of voluntarily relaxing my right trapezius, or any other muscle in my body for that matter. I notice that as I exhale after each contraction the muscle never fully disengages. I maintain a slight contraction even when my brain thinks I’ve completely let go. It reminds me of lying in savasana at the end of yoga class. I think my muscles have softened and released until the teacher asks us to contract our entire body and then let go. That’s when I realize that my muscles have been holding on the whole time. Internally I shout, LET GO! LET GO! LET GO! Of course, the shouting doesn’t usually work. In order to completely release I imagine myself as heavy as a huge weight, sinking into the support of the floor. With each exhale I get heavier and heavier. So heavy that I can no longer hold on and must finally let go.

Relaxing is by no means easy. My body maps years of stressful physical activities. Standing on top of a ten-meter platform and proceeding to flip off into three-and-a-half somersaults, while spinning thirty-five miles per hour all for the sudden shock of landing into cold water does not send messages of relaxation to my nervous system. In fact, I’d say it made my nervous system . . . well, nervous. And to think, I participated in the sport of diving for thirteen years. That’s a lot of bad muscle memories. Muscle nightmares.

As I return from my thoughts I find Becky focusing on my erectors, the long muscles that run the length of my back from the base of the skull to the back of the hip. As was the case with the trapezius, my erectors never lose their tonicity between contractions. Lesson number one from massage number one: I don’t know how to relax. As much as it sounds like an oxymoron, relaxing is something I’m going to have to work on.

References:

Hanna, Thomas. Somatics: Reawakening the mind’s control of movement, flexibility, and health. Da Capo Press, 1988. Print.