What Scares Us Into Paying More Attention to The Body

Taking the long way home

Before the event, I treated my body like a hotel. I was passing through on the way to somewhere else. I didn’t know much about my internal systems.

I didn’t need to know. I wasn’t going to be a doctor or a nurse.

I was happy not having to be weighed down with a bad heart, lung issues, or problems with any of my organs.

I should have knocked on wood, or my thick head.

Ignorance might feel like a defense against tragedy and complications, but in the end, it’s just another form of magical thinking.

Life is full of surprises.

Mine came in the form of cancer and a mastectomy. My relationship with my body suddenly changed. Rather than continuing to bask in cherished exceptionalism, I had to face the fact that I was as vulnerable and susceptible to injury, disease, and chronic conditions as anyone else.

My new reality was humbling.

I had never thought about how my heart and lungs were situated in my rib cage. I knew even less about my internal organs. They made me squeamish.

I only thought about my liver when it hurt after a night of drinking and eating rich foods. Otherwise, I had no interest in its ongoing status.

The mastectomy was visible evidence that something was askew in my body and my thinking. I needed to start learning more about the body I’d been occupying for decades.

A caveat here — I wasn’t a complete zombie. I acknowledged my body in terms of exercise and let myself indulge in pleasures and challenges. I knew I loved swimming in the ocean, riding my bike down hills, playing tennis or basketball, drinking, and having sex.

I knew the surface stories of my body but nothing about my anatomy and intimate internal structures.

I decided to go to massage school.

I’m sure that makes no sense to people who have been practicing yoga for years or are highly attuned to their bodies.

I blame some of my lack of body awareness on Catholicism. I was taught at an impressionable age that body and spirit were engaged in war. If the body and its desires prevailed, I’d go to hell.

It was better to ignore my body since I was likely heading toward the eternal fires anyway.

That strategy worked pretty well until my breast was excised.

I started consulting all kinds of bodyworkers — Rolfers, Heller Work Specialists, and Feldenkrais Method folks. I had the best luck with an Aston Patterning therapist. She worked with a mixture of emotions, metaphors, and body patterning.

I also got a few massages‑ — a new experience. I wasn’t a fan at first. Some massages felt mechanical, distracted, and robotic. Then I had a couple of great massages where the therapist was tuned in, on several levels, as if she was conversing with my body or I was a piano, she was tuning and playing simultaneously.

I wanted to learn what she knew intuitively.

She suggested a massage therapy school to enroll in

Becoming a massage therapist seemed like an expedient way to acquire body knowledge. In addition, I would be learning skills that might enrich my psychology studies.

Or so I imagined.

My first challenges were self-consciousness and anxiety. I was too worried about doing the preparatory steps correctly. When I laid my hands on a fellow student, they jumped.

I was too abrupt. My hands were cold and stiff. I felt awkward. Kneading skin and tissue didn’t come naturally to me.

I had to practice endlessly.

My friends were kind enough to volunteer as pretend clients. One of my earliest volunteers, an artist friend, said he was looking forward to a relaxing massage. That was my intent.

It’s not what happened.

I put so much oil on my friend’s skin, he was dripping with oil by the end of the massage. He asked to use my shower and didn’t sign up for a second session.

It took a while to get out of my overactive brain to let my hands lead me.

That was the fatal flaw my teachers continually coached me on. Being too much in my head, Teachers had me focus for hours on just laying my hands on people and kneading tissue until these basic movements had a flow and were grounded.

As time passed, my skills got stronger. I got better feedback and evaluations from fellow students, staff, and people who came to the school clinic.

There were aspects of massage school that seemed cheesy and magical, but overall, I learned tangible skills.

After getting and giving massages and being naked in front of fellow students and teachers, I was also a hundred times more comfortable with my body, including my mastectomy site and scar.

I came to see the scar as a sign of resilience and strength.

I opened a small practice, sharing office space with a school friend. It was rewarding until psychology studies and giving massages stopped working together.

My body was no longer a hotel. It became my home.

I had many more lessons to learn about how to tend it.