Surrender

When I arranged myself facedown on Maureen’s heated massage table yesterday, I heard cardinals calling to one another in the tender slice of urban garden out the window.  The lilting birdsong momentarily unlocked my breath and sent my clenched shoulders southward.   

I had just unbottled a swirl of vulnerabilities to Maureen.  The recent neurologist’s appointment, the upcoming MRI, the moment I felt so distinctly a parent – strong within all of my fragility – as I rubbed the wings of Jack’s shoulder blades that sleepless night.

After five years of monthly massage practice, I no longer feel exposed.  And it has been practice, teaching myself to surrender on the table.  Learning to let someone else soothe the stories both real and imagined that pool just under my skin.  Stilling the overturned snow globe of my mind and sinking into the deep night of muscle memory.

Maureen came into the room, gently starfishing her hand along my spine. 

“Now it’s my turn to rub your back and soothe your wings, just like you did for Jack,” she said.  A safety net of spirit.   

I felt tears surge against my shuttered eyelids.  I thought of the massage table, the MRI table.  Really not so different after all, as long as I remember to surrender.