Oblique

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?