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Her Face at Rest
This short essay is a companion piece to a recent post on my Substack. I am taking a few ideas from my notebook and writing them both as poem drafts and short essays. I hope to learn a little something about the creative process, about how words go, and about how to answer when someone asks me “How do you decide what form to write in?”
In my massage practice, I am most comfortable with people who are the least comfortable. These are the people who have been distanced from their bodies by illness, trauma, or tragedy. They are people who, most of all, need a place to rest.
Katya* came into my office with her hands full of things: water bottle, earphones, keys, and wallet. She drapped it in a jumbled heap on the side table and sighed as she sat down. I started as I often do, asking: “What do you need today?”
Katya said she didn’t know. That her husband had died a week ago and . . . In that pause, her eyes filled and she smiled.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.” She smiled. “There will probably be some big feelings in here.”
Ah yes. Big feelings. I felt my own body relax. This is my sweet spot — a person in extremis, just looking for a liminal space to gather themselves, and to feel nurtured for an hour or so. I can hold this space.