Issue link: https://www.massageandbodyworkdigital.com/i/1315831
70 m a s s a g e & b o d y wo r k j a n u a r y/ fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 1 part of the body or watch the clock, where there is just the seemingly endless and unencumbered present moment, just your body and your client's body, each settling into a greater sense of ease. I do not know when I will see clients again. The mysteries of this virus are many, and the few things we do know—that the aerosol particles can linger in a room, that it seems to cause horrific blood clots in certain patients, that asymptomatic spread is pervasive—all caution me against returning to my practice any time soon. I understand the need to work and the desire to get back to normal, and I have no judgment against those of you who are already back at your wellness center or chiropractor's office or spa. I intend this essay not to discourage anyone from seeing clients again but rather as an exploration of what we might take from this unprecedented moment. FINDING GROUND IN UNCERTAINTY It feels crass to use a virus that has killed hundreds of thousands of people as an excuse for career reflection, and yet, such is a fundamental element of being human: we take lemons and make lemonade. Within the darkness we still, inevitably, search for the light. So, the question I've been asking myself a great deal is this: What can we learn about our work when we are unable to do it? The answer is a lot, and here are my thoughts. We All Benefit The spread of COVID has exposed how the most basic elements of life are the most vital. Social distancing—along with masks and handwashing and all the other recommendations of our hardworking scientific community—is incredibly necessary, and will continue to be for quite a while. But social distancing is awful. It is really hard to not touch each other. These sacrifices are essential but profoundly unhealthy. I have noticed that the lack of physical contact in our world has created a vicious cycle. We must protect ourselves and our loved ones, but this diligence comes at a cost. Now we instinctively withdraw when an eager toddler wanders too close. We gauge our fellow humans suspiciously—on the sidewalk and ahead of us in line. We wonder who is asymptomatic. We avoid anyone who even sniffles. An errant cough draws dirty looks and disgust. It is a terrible thing to constantly be wondering if our neighbors will make us sick. The borders guarding our personal space have expanded and grown rigid. In other THE UNFREEDOM OF NOT WORKING Nine months. I have been a massage therapist for more than 15 years and have been in private practice for the past decade. I set my own schedule. I no longer need to find a sub to take my shifts at the spa when I want a vacation. I can decide to see a client at 6:00 a.m., 9:00 p.m., or not at all. I delight in this freedom. But now I have too much of it. It turns out that enforced freedom is no freedom at all. There was one summer a few years ago when I didn't see clients for three weeks in a row. I counted each day, almost in disbelief, as if I had cheated somehow to gain this much time away from my busy schedule. I was jubilant. My body felt floppy and unburdened, my fingers and forearms light. The time away felt like a great blessing. Now, the time away feels like a burden. My body feels untethered. To be sure, I am fortunate. Amid global upheaval and vast heartache, I am very fortunate. My family has food and shelter and health—and the joys of this moment have been many. I sat with my daughter as her brain and hand made the astonishing link that enables us to write letters. The "S" is still a perpetual frustration, but she has mastered nearly all the rest. And I have watched my son navigate online learning, graduate from elementary school, and start middle school—all with an astounding grace amid the almost-overnight disruption of everything he has known. In short, I am endlessly grateful to have endless hours with my family, to have day after day after day to be with them instead of my clients. And yet, these joys do not alleviate that untethered feeling. Our COVID era has made me realize, like never before, that massage is my anchor. Massage is both what grounds me in the moment and what propels me forward. To say that I miss massage feels inadequate. Missing doesn't even feel like the right word. I yearn for massage. I am guessing you have your own yearnings. Here are some of mine: • I yearn for my bottle of coconut oil, and the smooth quarter turn of the nozzle that would open it at the start of each day and bring my work to a close at day's end. • I yearn for the flapping sound the sheet makes as I flip each one in the air, unfurling it over my massage table. • I yearn for the steady chunks of color in my calendar, red with slivers of white in between, one after the other after the other, denoting a full day of clients ahead. My calendar is bare these days; my children don't make appointments. • I yearn for the moment of pause before beginning each session, my slow, effortless exhale, the feeling of my bare feet on the wood floor. • I yearn for those transcendent moments in a session, where there is no need to accomplish anything, no need to finish the stroke or transition to the next