Her name is Agnes. She is the
master of her trade, I’m told. And
so I know immediately I must see her. She does not disappoint, sealing her
reputation within the first ten minutes I spend with her. She asks me to talk
about where the pain is. Sheepishly I tick through my laundry list. I’m a little
stunned and a lot impressed when, with nothing more than her hands and naked
eye, she’s able to come to a very similar conclusion
the chiropractor needs x-rays to diagnose. I know I’m in the right place.
We’ll meet weekly for a while, she explains. My muscles need some coaxing back into their
normal state. This will take time. Today she hones in on the fallen arch in my
left foot and so it begins, a physiology lesson around the intricate,
interconnected mechanics of this beautiful, battered vessel housing my soul. I’m fascinated
and relieved. The estrogen hemorrhaging from
my body is leaving all kinds of carnage in its wake; my stiffness is yet
another fact of aging that has me reeling.
It’s good to know I’m not some freak of nature; this is normal wear and
tear indigenous to the species.
I’m supine; she explains she’s going to press on my psoas, a muscle that helps
the hip joint move. It’s very
sensitive, she says, this is one of our “emotional” muscles, buried deep in a place that’s hard to access.
Lots of us don’t’ even know we have a psoas. My Pilates instructors speak
of it along with technical terms like “transverse abdominals”. It’s been a bit like urban legend until today. I’ve never been able to isolate this emotional muscle.
I’m certain it’s never been touched. I’m flinching before she starts.
And this is how it is with what’s buried deep. We balk at even the thought of going
there. Stowed in this space is the source
of our insecurities, longing, shortcomings, shame and failures. For these feelings to see the light of day is
more than a little unsettling. You name it; all the bad stuff burrows as far
within us as it can so we don’t have to
face it. There’s no chance
we’ll need to talk about it; it’s so well cloistered, it’s forgotten; we don’t even realize anymore we have it.
Yet as much as we try, this
jetsam never floats far enough away. It
manifests itself in other parts of our lives, so distant from the source we don’t even consider a connection between the two. Who would ever think pain on the right side
of the neck is caused by the fallen arch in the left foot?
If we’re lucky in life, we meet someone like Agnes who
helps us find and release our psoas. She
listens with an inquisitive ear, observes with an objective eye; she leaves
judgment outside the room. She asks
well-placed questions, and talks through possible causes, but checks
admonishment at the door because she spends her time dealing with what is with
the body in front of her, not what could have been if only we’d known better.
She possesses endless patience, aware that the adjustments our bodies
make to compensate for a lifetime of bad habits become our default position,
and this takes time to change.
She has her clients, she says, who are more than
content to lie quietly while she gently massages the surface. They’re here for
a pleasant experience, for the express relief of the symptoms, not a diagnosis
or cure for the cause. She thrives,
though, with clients like me, who want to understand what lurks beneath, and
learn how everything is connected, those who are maybe a little afraid of the
pain, but won’t rest until
the core is reached. We brave the serious discomfort that comes
with going deep into the psoas, because self-awareness and understanding the
root cause bring sustained healing.
Inside these emotional muscles beats
the heart of who we are. Facing what lives here means we’re one step closer to becoming who we are meant to
be. It’s circuitous and scary, humbling
and exhilarating. It means we accept our imperfections, beg for belated forgiveness,
and question whether we have regrets. Most
of us can’t do this hard work alone. Who is your Agnes?
