Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

This afternoon I had a massage for the first time in a couple years. And, after only a few minutes under the masseuse’s skilled hands, I wondered why I waited so long between appointments.

I’ve been a devotee of massage for approximately twenty years, having had my first experience when I still had children at home and more reasons than you could imagine to have someone work the kinks from my body. Today, I’m less stressed, but the massage was no less enjoyable.

The experience is like a ballet between two people with the masseuse as the lead dancer. Under dim lighting and gentle music – in this case, a CD of soft piano — the leader stretches and strokes the client’s limbs, moving them this way and that, as if creating certain poses, then returning the arm or leg to the resting position. There’s a certain physical beauty to it all. There’s a certain mental beauty as well.

In print, it sounds rather hokey; but, as the masseuse worked on me, all I could think of was how the room and the music and the lead dancer melded together. When my hour was up, I literally floated out the door.