ceelove: (serendipity)
I am so sorry. For almost 20 years, I called you "boring." I was so wrong. You are a tireless and unsung workhorse of the body. The tide that washes us of detritus. The silent mystery underpinning the functionality of all those big obvious clodhopper systems like (bah) muscles and skin.

It is so very hard to know you. You can be detected mostly through your lack of absence: when we are made turgid by too much of you pooling within. Subtly, quiescently, patiently clogging up the gaps we didn't even know we had (let alone needed) until they are gone and something is just, indescribably, not right.

For twenty years, I've practiced massage with little more than an occasional roll of the eyes in your direction. Worse, even, I lauded love and attention on your sister system, the network of fascia that undergirds our every cell and organ. I even ignored the evidence of your importance in the times when myofascial work falls short. Voiceless, you proclaimed all along that when lymph ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

So I will endeavor to make you happy henceforth. Along with myofascial work and Thai massage, you will guide me in correcting dysfunction in the body. I will learn deeper listening than I knew possible, and be the lymph whisperer in return, holding conversations with you like atomic sighs. And sometimes, it seems, those will reverberate within you and come back to me like fireworks and voices of thunder shaking the body awake. I have seen; I know.

Oh, lymph, how glorious you are, how deserving of my fascination and amazement. Nevermore shall I neglect the wonder that is you.

Love, Me´╗┐
ceelove: (serendipity)
I just got the last arrangement done of Fire and Ice, two and a half years after I first set out to make-there-be-music such that other people could hear how it's supposed to go.

Seventeen songs, people. And in a couple of weeks, the contests open (and one closes again after three weeks): the big-name contests of the music theatre world, with money and prestige and recognition attached, almost always won by men (and teams of men at that). To coin a phrase, if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere. The best-known contest requires 45 minutes of music submitted with an entry - and I have 56 minutes.

There's everything-else happening in the last few weeks, with high drama, huge emotions from Sylvana, a resumption of the land search, and all the late-spring grubbing a girl could ask for. But I can't begin to get a handle on it, so I'll leave it at this: I shared The Princess Bride with Sylvana, and it was awesome.
ceelove: (serendipity)
So remember that extra fun bleeding I was doing for a while there? It did not resolve quickly. Finally, when I was 26-for-42 days on, I saw a Chinese herbalist. She prescribed a bunch of herbs that I made into a truly vile tea and drank twelve times while holding my nose. It was worth it. As of today, I've gone through a full normal cycle.

So I went back to get another round of tea prescribed, this time for the excess of phlegm that's been plaguing me for four years. Thank the gustatory gods, the tea this time is palatable. Oh, not to be hacking phlegm out of my lungs and snorking it out of my face many times a day!

However much I want phlegm out of my face, though, I want my teeth to remain in my face. So I really really hope the moderately spectacular faceplant I did this morning doesn't result in permanent damage to a tooth, which is currently unable to take the tiniest bit of pressure without making me jump. Eating is going to be...difficult for a while.


Nov. 14th, 2012 08:55 am
ceelove: (Default)
Thank you for all the well-wishes. It was indeed awful, and is still quite weird now. Kind of like walking on a trampoline, except not in a fun way; or like my head is a big bag of water, sloshing around.

But meds and exercises have indeed been helping rapidly. Once again, ye gods but I'm grateful for the resources of my life. When I woke, I had only to text my housemates to ask for help, to know that my daughter would be cared for as necessary. Within five hours, I had a diagnosis and prescription. That afternoon, already feeling markedly better, I got energy work to calm my jangled self. By the evening, I felt up to working. Granted, this is because sitting to do massage is easier than, say, walking up stairs. But yeah, my life: pretty astounding. This was not a first-world problem, but I had both first-world resources and a world-class community to help, and I take neither lightly.
ceelove: (Default)
I was ruminating on some kind of gardeny updatey thing, while I harvested this morning.

Like, there are tomato hornworm cemetaries, their innards becoming the stuff of parasitic wasp larvae instead of my plants becoming the stuff of hornworm innards. I encouraged the wasps with plants that lure beneficial insects. Permaculture: it works, bitches!

Or, ye gods, when I plotted this garden in the winter and planted in the spring, I expected it to be feeding, y'know, plenty of people. Now and for many weeks this summer, I'm the only one in the house eating measurable amounts of it. You can imagine the plotting I do to prepare and share my surplus, which is both great and surreal. I was going to take pictures of today's ridiculous bounty and mock-lament my fate of how to deal with it.

But with my hands full of harvested cucumbers, I met an old homeless Asian man on the sidewalk. I see him around, harvesting recyclables for the return fees. We found enough English and gestures between us to transfer several pints of cukes and tomatoes to his keeping. He was clearly very pleased, and I was very glad to give them to him, and yet the whole thing left me with an overall feeling of pensiveness and melancholy. I share so much food, but it goes to my friends, who are not undernourished. It was pure chance that I could give my fresh veggies this one time to someone who really needs them, and pure chance will not feed him well tomorrow, nor the hundreds of millions who spend much of their lives hungry.

So. Lots of happy ruminations on gardening going gloriously well. Rapture at the plants bejeweled with tomatoes, harmony with the pollinators so busy alongside me, a fair sense of awe at what my hands and some soil and the sun have wrought...all somewhat muffled by sorrow at how very rare it is for people to have this kind of luck and magic at hand.

a sad PSA

Jan. 18th, 2012 08:16 am
ceelove: (Default)
When I started doing massage, I often worked crazy hours, often over 20 and once 30 hours of massage in a week. That rather boggles my mind, given that my hands and arms would generally be happy with 10, nowadays. And they often get more than that. And they keep telling me about it.


So I'm no longer accepting new clients. I hate to do it, to tell someone, sorry, your pain didn't make the cutoff, but my own pain necessitates it. I'll spread the word if that changes, but for the forseeable future, my massage client load is all full up.


ceelove: (Default)

September 2017



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