Touch

I am a massage therapist. I touch bodies and souls for a living. My hands explore the hills and valleys, the scars and tattoos, the old and the new. My fingers feel tireless muscles and strong bones; they feel the fascia, the faces, and the feet. I untie knots in shoulders that hunch too long in front of a computer. I nurse sacrums that are tender from carrying children. My thumbs hike their way across swollen, tired feet. I soothe and protect and nurture. My clients give me their bodies and their trust and let me hold the weight of their head in my cradled hands. My soul is nourished, and I am thankful.

Travel

I don't consider myself a great world traveler. I have been to and loved a few places around the world, but there are still hundreds of cities on every continent that I have yet to explore. I have been to enough places to realize that I prefer country over city, and mountains over fields.

However, one of my absolute favorite places in the world is the isle of Capri, off the coast of Italy. I went there with a group from my high school when I was only seventeen. We'd traveled from London to Paris to several cities in Italy before we arrived in Capri. There, I found the wonderment from my childhood again. I saw the world through fresh eyes and drank in its cool, clear, blue water. I wandered the streets and giggled with my friends.

On this day, I went to the Blue Grotto. To get there, we took a rowboat operated by a local. When we approached the opening of this cave, we were told that the entrance was so small that we had to lie down in the boat in order to squeeze through. Once inside, our guide told us to close our eyes until he said to open them. When we did, we were surrounded by the bluest blue shining light. We were bathing in blue. It was absolutely magical.



On a similarly magical experience, I experienced the Swiss Alps with a group from my university. We really were just driving through Switzerland, on our way to Germany... but as soon as I saw those mountains, I loudly declared that when I grew up, I wanted to be Swiss. I couldn't stop staring at these beautiful, peaceful, towering rocks. I remeI had a similarly magical experience when I first saw the Swiss Alps. This time, I was travellingmber the snow-covered peaks contrasting with the green of the country and the blue of the lakes.

Then the group stopped at McDonald's for lunch and the experience will forever be tainted with that nonsense.

Recently, my husband and I drove around the mountains of West Virginia. We made it to the top of the mountain (with my nails digging into the upholstery of the car's interior), and it was well worth the trip. The air was fresh and clean and we saw countless eagles and hawks. As we looked over the Shenandoah Valley, the clouds were low and misty, the sounds natural and quiet.

On my list of places to visit: the mountains of New Zealand, the Congo, the Amazon, and Indonesia.

Music

I wish I could sing. I love to sing, and partake in this guilty pleasure often, but I just can't carry a tune. I wish I had one of those clear, sweet, pretty singing voices. There's a movie, The Namesake, which is a movie I really love. In it, the mother (Indian actress/singer, Tabu) is a singer. Oh, what a sweet voice she has. Her voice bows my head and closes my eyes and I appreciate song on a cellular level.

I've always been a musician, in spite of my lack of singing skills. I played french horn, trumpet, and piano quite well, and dabbled in other various instruments. I practiced hard, but didn't need to. I majored in music in college, playing french horn and piano. After college... I just abandoned my love for playing music. Life took me down a different path, and there wasn't any room to drag my piano down it.

I've gotten so rusty. Once in a while, I'll play from memory a tune on the piano in my parents' basement. I haven't picked up my french horn in about seven years. I know that if I took the time, I could eventually call myself a pianist or a hornist again.

So why don't I? If I miss it so much, what's stopping me from picking it back up? I have the time, certainly, and the desire. I'm ashamed, that's why. Blessed with a talent I didn't appreciate until I threw it away, I now realize how shameful that act was.

I still love listening to music. Nothing beats Bob Marley on a sunny afternoon, or Etta James with a glass of wine. Billy Joel in the car, Simon & Garfunkel in a waiting room on my iPod, or the Dixie Chicks when I'm feeling especially sassy. As long as I know there are other people out there who embrace their talent and share it with the world, I'll take that, greedily.

Someday I'll get back to playing, when the music calls me... when I can bow my head and let my eyes close and let the music back in.

Dipping my toe in...

After a gentle persuasion from a dear friend, I am trying this out. Everyone has a blog these days, right? I have recently discovered that I never just let it all out... and apparently, I have a lot to say. When I let down the walls and let the words come - boy, does that feel great. But where do I start? I can talk about anything - anything! - but what really gets me going is something that gets under my skin.

And that, as those who know me best will know, is religion.

Raised Catholic, I followed in my older brother's footsteps on many paths. On the road of religion, I learned from him but later taught myself about the inequality and unfairness of religion in America today. For a country that was founded on escaping from religious zealots, we've sure produced a lot of them lately.

So many innocent people are blinded by the promise of that white light at the end of the tunnel: Heaven.

I can understand wanting to have some kind of faith, when I look around the world today, but I just can't buy it. I can't buy that Mary didn't actually have sex with someone in order to conceive His Only Begotten Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. I can't buy that Jesus came back to life, although I do believe he had a lot of followers, probably because he was probably a pretty cool guy, considering. I can't buy that God sent down a fax to Moses on top of that mountain telling him, and only him, all the rules of the world.

I have so much respect for those who have faith in this stuff, as long as they equally respect me for not believing it. I have a friend named Kelly, whose mind is even dirtier and more curious than mine, who loves Jesus. She just loves Jesus and God. She's happy with that. She's totally cool with me not loving Jesus, and doesn't slap me in the face with the stuff all the time. Because of that, we've had some really interesting conversations about faith.

My oldest friend is a guy named Eric. Eric and I have completely different political views and religious views, yet we love each other just the same. We have some of the best conversations about politics and religion (but isn't that just redundant?) because we respect each other and don't shove our own views down any throats.

On the other hand, I've been bombarded with emails and advertisements and presidents of the United States of America telling me that I am a Christian, because that is the American Way. Sometimes I consider my atheism a skeleton in my closet, because I never know who is listening and judging my religion. In a time like this, atheism, of all things, is considered taboo.

In my quest for freedom from religion, I fear that I've become condescending and biased. While fighting religious oppression, I find myself defensive and sarcastic. I want to be respectfully skeptical, but I live in a world where I STILL hear about Barack Obama being a Muslim (not that there's anything wrong with that!). I live in a county that voted for George Bush. Twice.

I want to remain dignified and curious, without apathy or contempt. I want to love those around me and have them love me, no matter which God we believe in. I live for the day when church and state will indeed be separate.