“Twelve!” you’d say, “Let’s count to 12!”

Close your eyes now and there it is, right inside you, replete with receding whispers, breaking twigs, and excited waiting. No need for 3D glasses, no need for surround sound. Then is now!

Can you feel the roughness of that tree’s bark on your cheek? Can you feel the snugness of that crawl space you managed to —yup!— squeeze your whole goshdarnit body into? (High fives!)

How quietly and quickly, how without argument, it all happened. Just like that!

The best time for hide ‘n’ seek was dusk, of course. That magical time between light and night, between bright and shadow, between knowing and not knowing. A time when you’d switch from day vision, to that full-body, all-sensory, seeing that happens more easily when the world is dark.

Hide ‘n’ seek. Ahhh…

And then you grew up. You got busy. You started making yourself do things you didn’t want and not letting yourself do what you, truly, heart of hearts, wanted. Maybe you started telling yourself you were too big for crawl spaces, or too small, or old, or something for climbing places. Over the years, your thinking got crowded and, whereas before you’d have counted to 12 without a second thought, now you deliberate. And deliberate. And deliberate. And in between all that deliberation —hmmm… 12 or 20? Is 100 too much? Is 10 too little? Should we have a meeting? Make an agenda?— you bemoan the fact that you have no time, and that it’s so hard to make a decision, and and and…

Oof! Tired yet?

What if today looked like a game of hide ‘n’ seek?

What if instead of the deliberating you covered your eyes, counted to 12, and then just went ahead instead? Could it be that the next thing to do might be as obvious, if surprising, as the perfect crawl space which appears, magically, in the moment of hiding and not a moment sooner?

What if instead of pushing and pushing and pushing through that effing blah and blah and blah project you stopped and counted 12—?

What if instead of checking, once again, your smartphone, you went for a walk? Or gazed at your hands instead, maybe holding one in the other, or bringing them up to your dear face?

What if instead of yelling at the kids, or at yourself, or at Congress to stop with its bickering already you started twirling and twirling and twirling until your turning became a dance that they (or you!) couldn’t help but stop and stare at, all wide-eyed? (Who IS this marvelous, if dorky, creature? I’ll have what she is having!)

What if at the next red light you got all up close and intimate with your next breath as if it were your very first kiss?

You may not know this about me, but I share my hometown (Temuco, Chile) with belovéd Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. Although Neruda died in 1973, when I was just a wee girl, still, I like to think that he and I drank of the same water, breathed the same air. In my dreams we walk down Temuco streets together: I am 8 and he is old and always we are walking. He has the kindest, sparkliest eyes, and we play a game which only allows us to speak in metaphor.

I like to translate my favorite Neruda poetry into English, my now-main language. Today I bring you one of my very favoritest poems of all, the one that always takes me back to Hide ‘n’ Seek:

Keeping Quiet (Pablo Neruda)
[translation (c) Heidi Fischbach, 2013]

Now we will count to twelve
and we’ll all keep still.

For once upon the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
for one second let us stop,
and not move our arms about so much.

It would be a fragrant minute,
without hurry, without locomotives,
we would all be together
in a sudden, strange unease.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to whales
and the salt miner
would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

Don’t confuse what I want
with a total lack of action:
life is only what we do,
I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren’t all so complicit
about keeping our lives in such motion,
perhaps doing nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves,
this threatening ourselves with death,
and perhaps the earth would teach us
as when everything appears to be dead
and then turns out to have been alive.

Now I will count to twelve
and you’ll be quiet and I will go.

[Hear Heidi read it in Spanish: HERE]

——————

Hey! Shhhh… Yes you! Wanna hide on my massage table? You can schedule your next session online HERE (easy peasy!)

Wish you were HERE!

xo
Heidi

P.S. That link, in case it gets lost in the feed:

http://heidistable.com/hello-sunday-chapbook/

Sometimes I ask myself those questions. They help me not take my life for granted. They help me feel more connected. And sometimes they make me bow.

But yesterday morning these questions were the last thing on my mind. In fact, not much other than a very grumpy mood was on my mind as I set out on my run. But that was about to change… And last night, remembering my questions, I bowed to the man at the pond. And then I gave my memory of it all a pen:

The pond has been frozen for several days now. Yesterday afternoon there were many children and puppies and peoples skating and slipping and sliding gleefully around on the ice, but this morning, it being Monday, a work- and school-day, not so many. This morning, after my run, I stopped at the pond again.

In the distance, a handful of skaters: one skating in smooth circles on a cleared patch to my right; in the middle distance to my left two others skating on another smooth patch; and closest to where I stood, on the right, a man and his boy simply laughing and rolling around on the ice. It was all quite enjoyable to watch in an absentminded, daydreamy way, but the person who really drew my attention stood a mere few feet to my left, doing nothing more than gazing at the skaters, and in particular one girl-woman who was too far for me to be able to tell her age, but by the way she moved, I’d say she was, at most, in her 20′s and possibly even, still in her teens.

The man was short, Latino-looking, and somewhere between mid-age and going-on-oldish age. A couple of feet behind us, on the bench, sat a very quiet boy, sucking his thumb, wrapped in several jackets including a woman’s coat. I wondered if the girl-woman was the boy’s mom. I wondered if the man who’d captured my attention was her father. Maybe he was watching the boy so she could skate. Really, I had no idea.

I watched the skaters, but mostly I wanted to watch the man watching the girl and so, as often as I could without being obvious, I cast a surreptitious glance his way only to find his eyes, still focused in the distance, on the girl. Mostly he was serious, though always his eyes were soft, and sometimes the edges of his mouth would venture up into the ever so slightest smile, which usually happened when she fell and quickly got up, or when she did some little twirl or wobbly pirouette.

His manner was shy, self-contained. Very quiet. And caring. At one point he turned and, seeing that one of the coats had slipped off the child, he went over and, with a tender touch, tucked the coats more closely around the boy before stepping back to his spot to take up gazing at the girl in the distance.

In this country, at least around here, when I see men of the ethnicity, the heritage, of this man at the pond, they are often wearing custodial clothing, mopping a floor here, cleaning dishes there. Not always, certainly, but often. This man’s clothes were in good condition, and he wore a baseball cap. He was neither poorly nor well dressed.

I am not sure why I was so taken by him. We never exchanged a word, nor did our eyes ever meet. I have no idea who he was or what in the world he does, but what I felt watching him was a kind of swelling in my chest, as if my ribs had suddenly become far too tight for my heart. I can feel it in my body, even now, just remembering. I could try to name what that is, that feeling in my chest, but words fall so short. A name, a label, wouldn’t even come close to doing it justice. My body knows better.

I realize that if my little scene here, the one I’ve just told you, were a movie, it’d be sorely lacking in plot. What can I say! Sure, I can’t help wondering about the man: what are his hopes, his dreams, his fears, his loves? Really, I have no idea. But I’m pretty sure I am right when I say that two of his loves were there at the pond this morning. As well as a woman —a stranger— with a rib cage too tight for whatever was happening in her heart.

I tip my hat to the man at the pond. And to you. Thanks for reading. I hesitate to even post this for I wonder: did you have to be there?

Ah well. It’s just a blog. But tell me, if you want, what have you noticed lately?

Aardvark Essentials is closing its business doors. That is the Twitter, or nutshell, version of this letter. For the story version, read on…

Yes, I am closing my online lotions & potions business. I’d like to take a few moments to honor the things I have most loved about Aardvark Essentials and to offer you the last potions I have made.

Things I’ve most loved

You! You are the most loyal, playful and supportive group of fans and customers a girl (and an aardvark!) could wish for. I bid you farewell in my capacity of potion-maker, and look forward to saying hello again and again in my capacity of massage therapist, writer, and sister humanling making my way in the world.

The aardvark. You may recall that he came to me in a dream back in 2009, and would not leave me be until I payed attention. I told him, at the time, that I couldn’t do it alone and he said, “what about me?! I can be your business partner.” And that’s how it came to pass that me and an aardvark started creating magic potions together. He might reside in the realm of imaginary but he’s taught me so much. He is the calm to my freak-out, the cool to my hot-head, the collected to my scattered. And, wise as he is in animal-ways, the aardvark has taught me that the best way to take care of my mind is to pay attention and care for my body.

What’s that? You are wondering where he is now?

Ah yes, of course. Well, you know that he went back to Africa when I announced our potion sabbatical last June. Since then we have spoken –via imaginary Skype, naturally– and at some point it became clear that I wanted to keep having more time to write and he wanted to stay in Africa (Boston might have good take-out but we never did find a place that offered red ant nests). The last couple of months have been all about me getting comfortable with this big decision, while he satisfies his craving for red ants.

The joy and magic of creation. Sure, it was in my mind that ideas for potions appeared and popped, but the how of their creation, the what that they actually became, and the stories that went along with it all, always involved surprise. The potions that you have used and loved were so much bigger than I ever could have imagined. What I learned in this regard could be summed up as:

Everything has a life and a magic of its own. Even while it is through us –you, me, anyone– that something happens and its magic comes into form, we don’t, ultimately, make or control anything. To have gotten to have the mind into which potions appeared, I say, “Lucky me!”

Havi Brooks‘ At the Kitchen Table (2009-2011), a dear group of delightful, quirky and brilliant people who cheered me on and were my guinea pigs, seeing my potion-idea from its wee baby stage all the way through to 10 potions. You know who you are and, to Havi and to you all, I send you a treasure chest filled with kisses and wishes delivered by the handsomest pirate ever there was who is about to give you an enormous bow of gratitude on my behalf. (I recommend the view from behind!) To me he looks a whole lot like Johnny Depp. To you? I don’t know. Eye of beholder, and all that…

My friends, I think that about says it.

What comes next? you ask.

I have been clearing space and I am open to surprise, but I know that writing will continue to be a part of it. Also, my massage therapy practice very much continues. (I’d love to see you on my table! And yes, I will continue making and mixing my own creams and oils, and quite likely, potions, too. They may be available from time to time, locally, in my office).

I’d love to offer you first dibs on the very last potions I have made.

7 Sets of Potions

(only one of each set, available as is)

Playday: $60 (value of $82) —- SOLD
10 ml. Sassypants (pulse point potion)
1 oz. Sassypants (cream)
1 oz. Birthday Suit (cream)

Moonday: $64 (value of $86) —- SOLD
10 ml. Sassypants (pulse point potion)
1 oz. ChaChaChai (cream)
1 oz. Presence (cream)

Toosday: $78 (value of $104) —- SOLD
2 oz. Birthday Suit (cream)
5 ml. Losing It (pulse point potion)
5 ml. Second Wind (pulse point potion)
5 ml. Ease Please (pulse point potions)

Middleday: $54 (value of $72) —- SOLD
1 oz. Presence (cream)
(two) 1 oz. Sprezzatura (creams)

Foursday:  $70 (value of $96)  —- SOLD
1 oz. Sprezzatura (cream)
1 oz. Up ‘n’ at ‘em (cream)
1 oz. Second Wind (cream)
1 oz. Birthday Suit (cream)

Loveday: $32 (value of $48)  —- SOLD
1 oz. Night Queen (cream)
1 oz. Presence (cream)

Restday:  $32 (value of $48) —- SOLD
5 ml. Ease Please (pulse point potion)
1 oz. Presence (cream)

(Potion descriptions, here).

To order, here’s how it works:

1. You email me and tell me which set(s) you want. (First come, first serve!)

2. If the set is available, I will email you an invoice via PayPal.

3. You pay the invoice. (Even though the invoice comes to you via PayPal, you do not need PayPal in order to pay. Major credit card is fine.)

4. Once I receive your payment, I will ship you your potions within one week. (No extra charge for domestic U.S. shipping.)

That is all, my darlings.

Gratitude and wishes for every good thing to you,

Heidi

People have their little families, their little groups, their little places, their little jobs, their little countries, their little clubs and the one thing all these little things have in common is that they’re full. When you ask one of the people with their little things how they are, usually they answer something along the lines of, “I’m SO busy!” They say “so” as if “busy” were a badge of honor. But the short of it is, they just aren’t available.

It’s not personal. I know that.  But I want more. So much more. I am driving an 18-wheeler down a bicycle path here and it is, um, what’s the word I’m looking for—

Inadequate.

There’s an expression for what I keep doing. Something about barking up the wrong tree.

Sometimes I want to pull a Henry David Thoreau. I want to leave all the little places of wrong trees and go build a cabin with and among the real trees, next to a real pond, with some real food I’ve planted and then watered and watched grow in some real dirt, the kind that gets under your real nails… and at the end of the day, which will end for real when the sun goes down, I will reach for my real paper and real pen to write it all down. And if I stay up past sun down, it will only be for as long as the wick of my candle, or the flames of my, very real, fire.

Site of Thoreau’s cabin at Walden

I wonder what made Henry David Thoreau finally up and leave for Walden. I imagine he was tired of noise. Maybe he was tired of everything. He said he wanted to “live deliberately.” Maybe, left to his habitual ways, he was a reacher, too, a reacher tired of not being filled by the whats he kept reaching for.

I want to say, “Henry David, you have no idea, man! There’s this thing called Facebook now, and cable news, and the whole world has turned into a noisy dribble of soundbites.”

To which he might be all, “Soundbite? I am not familiar with that word.”

And I, “Oh Henry David, trust me. You don’t want to be.”

I am sitting on a little planet, like the little prince on the cover of The Little Prince. Sometimes I am sitting quietly, and sometimes I am flailing. Sometimes I get up and shout, “Are you there?… Anybody?” It’s dark and it’s beautiful and I am alone and so much I am wanting connection, but not just any old noisy connection will do. No. Not just any old faux connection I compulsively reach for will do. No. I want the real goddam cheese, not the processed orange bullshit. I want the flesh and bones arms around, not the “Like” button. I want the listening. I want the truth. The real, down-in-the-bones truth. The underbelly, beautiful, though not always pretty, truth.

I’m tired to death of regurgitated quotes. I’m tired to death of the rah rah rah and the blah blah blah. I want the grit and grime, but only if it’s true. True grit. Don’t pretty it up with bullshit, though I wouldn’t mind if you put a lovely scarf around your hips. But scarf or no scarf, make it true.

Right now I want to write about how the birds are making noise. Not singing, but a boisterous, somewhat excited, noise, like a classroom-full of middle schoolers the moment before the teacher opens the door. Squaw squaw squaw didyouknow didyouhear didyousee… That’s what I want to say. It’s true.

I want to write about how the only thing that gets anywhere close to expressing what is trapped in my chest is a drum. No other sound is big or raw or gritty or beautiful or loud enough for that trapped stallion.

Yes. Stallion. I have a fucking stallion trapped in my chest. It pounds from the inside, Let! Me! Out! And I’ll be damned if I know how to, except for this drum of truth. Bam!

Right now I want to go check on all the little people with all the little things again. I want to check on the man, yes, the one I let break my heart again. I reach to click on my Facebook app, only to remember I deactivated Facebook 10, make that 11 now, days ago.

This morning I meditated for 10 minutes. Ten wee minutes. And yet, 10 minutes more than I would have if I hadn’t. Ten straight up minutes. It was the most honest thing I did all morning. And the ground was strong and true.

You may understand nothing of what I’ve just said, and I don’t care. I mean, I do. Very much. But the stallion in my chest is trumping even my concern about what you might think. And that’s saying something.

Connection. For real. Like Christopher and Anne, our neighbors who knocked on our door the other night during Hurricane Sandy. I answered and said, “Come in, come in!” and they did. They goddam did. And we sat in real chairs, and we sipped on real tea, and we talked and we laughed and we sang. Verily, we sang.

Let’s play a game, wanna?

Tell me something true, something very very true
I’ll tell you something true, something very very true

OK. Here’s something: The hydrangea outside my window is purple and dry and makes me happy and want to cry all at once.

OK. Now you…

Me: Have you started watching Breaking Bad?

He: No.

Me: Why not? I need you to start so that you can catch up to me so that I have someone to process episodes with because that is the badassest show that is freaking me out that I have ever loved and gotten addicted to and I can’t believe I love it and and I need to process. Like episode 6 of season 2. Can I tell you it?

Jesse Pinkman on Breaking Bad

He: No.

Me: Why not?

He: Because I’m going to watch it.

Me: I can tell it very carefully.

He: No you can’t.

Me: Can’t tell you or can’t tell you carefully?

He: Both.

Me: Can I just tell you one itty bitty bit?

He: No.

Me: Ittiest bittiest bit?

He: OK.

Me: So a bunch of violent shit just went down, I mean, super violent, violent on steroids-violent, except for somehow they manage to show it tastefully and for the other bits I cover my eyes. Anyway, the shit that just went down leaves Mr. White and his young partner and slacker ex-student, Jesse, without anyone to sell their meth. So now they have to. This task falls on Jesse because Mr. White doesn’t want to get his hands dirty with the likes of drug dealing, he being, after all, the chemist who is “only” doing this so that he can leave his family money because he is dying of cancer; that, and Jesse being the junkie. So the opening scene of this episode has Jesse waiting on a street corner for a friend whom he has hired to deal for them. He’s standing there smoking and passing the time lalala when he spots a beetle on the sidewalk. He watches it, clearly mesmerized, then bends down and lets the beetle crawl over his hand. It’s a very tender moment and he is smiling, something he rarely does when others are around. In the next moment his friend-now-dealer arrives, sees the bug, and before you can even think “WAIT!,” squashes it under his shoe. Anyway, the scene is brilliant. In what can’t be more than 23 seconds we get a full read on Jesse who, new gun in pocket, is on his way to try to be badass and mean, exact revenge, and scare the shit out of any other meth-heads who might be considering stealing drugs from him and Mr. White.

He: [nods]

Me: OK. So that is just the start. Can I tell you just one little thing more please?

He: No.

Me: There’salittlekidandanATMmachine!

He: You are hopeless.

Me: You’ve gotta see it. It’s the ATM machine episode and it’s called Peekaboo and oh my god oh my god–

He: Hopeless.

Me: You’re right.

[A moment of silence ensues.]

Me: I need your advice.

He: Go ahead.

Me: So, in all my unpacking and paring down and getting rid of stuff I don’t love or need, I came across a bear. Not Humlum. He’s on my bed. And I love him and need him. This is another one. From my childhood, I think. Except that I was never into stuffed animals when I was growing up and I have absolutely no memory whatsoever, not even repressed, of any kind of sweetness between me and this bear but he is well worn and over the years I keep moving him with me and every time I unpack him I don’t want to have him out because he makes me sad and one time I had to glue his eye back on because it had fallen off and I just don’t know what to do with him. Again. And I don’t want to ever unpack him and have to consider what to do with him again.

He: Is he in good enough shape to give to a kid?

Me: Nope. Not at all. But when I think of just throwing him away I can’t. It’d be like killing him. Even though I don’t love this bear, I just can’t kill him.

He: Give him to me. I’ll take care of it.

Me: Really? You’d do that for me?

He: Yes.

Me: OK. I don’t want to know what happens.

[A moment of silence ensues]

Me: What are you going to do?

He: I’m not going to tell you.

Me: I don’t care if you euthanize but if you do please promise there’ll be lots of mercy?

He: Of course.

Me: OK.

[Another moment of silence]

Me: You can use my Netflix account and catch up to me on Breaking Bad until you get the disks from your dad.

He: OK.

Me: My password is capital letter-symbol-little letter-little letter-little letter-little letter-symbol-little letter-number. Isn’t that a good rememberable but unhackable password?

He: It’s hackable.

Me: It’s not a word.

He: It’s hackable.

Me: It’s a freaking jumbled up flower word with symbols and I turned the noun into an adverb which makes no sense as words go and added a number at the end to throw them off. It has letters and numbers and symbols, just like you told me to do.

He: [sighs]

Me: But you’ll remember it, won’t you? Because I want you to catch up to me soon. Because I need to process Peekaboo. That’s what the beetle episode is called.

He: You should use the password app I gave you.

Me: Something went wrong and I can’t figure it out. Plus, you have to remember the password to get into the password program.

He: Yes you do.

Me: What’s your password?

He: [Rattles off the longest sentence. In French. My recollection, in my best fake French: OohlalaMerciBocoupFoisGrasLeCorbusierLalala]

Me: Totally hackable.

—————
[A few days later:]

Me: Did you do it already?

He: What?

Me: You know, um, the bear.

Peekaboo

He: No.

Me: So he’s still alive?

He: Yes.

Me: Can you bring him back? I just need a picture of him.

He: Sure.

Now the bear is sitting on my bookshelf, right where I snapped the above picture of him. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to go through with the plan, even with mercy, because now the bear has a name and I am here to tell you that it becomes significantly harder to kill (or have killed) something you’ve named. Oh dear.

Sometimes poems go back for you. They show up someplace you were and bring you that little thing that would have helped everything if only you’d known it or had it then. Like a wink across the table to let you know that even though you are the littlest one, the quietest one, the oddest one, the stripiest socked one, you aren’t crazy. Or a cool hand on your forehead when you’re burning up. Or a life preserver when the plane that was your world took a nosedive into the ocean. You thought you were alone but, alas, you weren’t, and when the poem shows up for you back then, it all comes together now.

Not that poets are trying to help you. Lord no. Poets aren’t preachers. And poets aren’t teachers. Poets are truth-tellers. Poets are prophets. Oftentimes prophets are only understood and become popular in retrospect because no matter what the truth looks like, no matter how the truth will land, poets say it like it is. Poetry is not the blah blah blah soundbite polished and regurgitated bullshit that comes at us all day every day these days. A poem cuts to the chase. Boom! And you sigh. And sighs never lie. Sighs come from the bone, they are bone-words. And even when a poet is saying a thing that’s hard to hear, and even though it may not be pretty at all, it feels good in your bones. Because it’s true.

Here’s a poem by Mary Oliver that I got in my bones years and years before I ever got it otherwise. At the time when I first heard it everything in my world felt broken and ugly and all I kept trying to do was fix things. My bones heard the poem and sighed. Ahhhh… They knew that broken things don’t become whole by fixing but by understanding. And oh was I ever exhausted from trying to fix things.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

—————
The Journey is by Mary Oliver. It is published in “Dream Work.”

[Crowd goes crazy cheering, blowing trumpets, throwing hats.]

Here to present you with your degree, I am delighted to introduce you to your most faithful companion, in good times and in bad, in wealth and in not-so-wealth, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, your Body.

[Wave upon wave of roaring applause.]

~ * ~

Many people think they are terrible at letting go but I am here to tell you that quite the opposite is true. Every day, all the time, you are letting go.

by doodle master David Cohen

You may be shrugging this all off: “What of it? I exhale. Big deal.” OK. I see your point. But in addition to highlighting the no-effort-ness of what happens already, I want to show you a simple but powerful trick.



You’re going to exhale, no matter what, right? Even if you don’t notice, you will. And even if you fight it and hold your breath like the best of 3-year-olds, eventually you will, right? But showing up with your awareness and noticing it while it happens can be like hitching a ride on a mighty and gorgeous wave.

Another way to think of it is piggybacking on the exhale. Remember how fun it was (or is!) to climb on someone’s back and have them carry you around? Sometimes, when my clients come to me very stressed out and very much struggling to relax, I invite them to, rather than trying to make themselves relax (if that sounds like a whole lot of effort, that’s because it is) to instead simply notice their breathing and hitch a ride on the back of their next exhale. Ahhhh…

The next wave will happen whether you notice it or not. So will that sunset and summer storm. And so will that whatever-it-is-that-comes-next. But oh the possibility when you show up and notice. Riding a wave involves ease and strength. Good thing you have both! How do I know? You just exhaled.

See you surfing! See you piggybacking! And, if you’re in the Boston area, maybe I’ll see you on my table. Hope so!

xo
Heidi

This morning I woke up feeling somewhat discombobulated and un-rooted, which quickly became noodgey and anxious. It could have to do with the packing boxes that surround me (I’m moving apartments) and all the transitioning going on, but I wasn’t sure. After panicking and tightening around the discomfort –often my first response– I took a moment to sense into what it actually was, rather than what I assumed it was. I also wanted to find out what the discomfort was wanting for me. (Have you noticed? Discomforts in our bodies are valuable clues to something needed, something wanted.)

Very quickly my body let me know that it wanted fresh air. (I could do that.) And movement. (OK. Also doable). Specifically, my body wanted me off my butt and at the park for a run before it got too hot, when it probably knew that I’d say, “but it’s too hot.” (Alright then!)

When I sensed in the more subtle and what are often emotion-related inner places (throat, chest and belly), I sensed that I want comfort. I invited my body to let me know what that would feel like, look like, this comfort…

“Ahhh,” it sighed, and then it showed me that comfort would be like a hand on the back, a there-there, a good meal, a glass of water, a sense of closeness and connection to myself and to important people in my life.

“Wait!” Apparently it wasn’t done! Also it wanted… It seemed a bit shy about this one so I put my ear closer. “A song,” it whispered, “a song sung softly.”

No matter how young or old we are, sometimes we all could use a lullaby, a there-there darlin’ everything’s going to be OK, a don’t you worry, I’ve got your back! And so, when I walked home from the park, I sang us a little Summertime song and recorded it on my smart little iPhone. (Link below).

How about you? Are you experiencing some discomfort today? Hmmm… whatever might it be about! Whatever might it be wanting for you… Why not pull up a chair and give it a listen. You may be surprised by what you hear!

Heidi’s Table is very much open and I’d love to see you on it! Let me help you with that pain in the neck… Or maybe what you’ve got yourself is a pain in the butt… Or maybe you’re looking to be quietly tended and taken care of for an hour. Or maybe your head’s been feeling heavy and you’d like me to hold it for awhile… Whatever your reason, I look forward to seeing you.

Now comes the secret code bit, OK? Gather ’round: When you contact me to set up your session, mention the secret password “Summertime” at any point in the message, and I will delightedly add an extra 15 minutes (on me) onto your 60- or 75-minute massage!

Mmmmm… more massage, yes please!

Can’t wait to see you. My office days are Thursdays and Fridays (9 AM – 8 PM) and Saturdays (9 AM – 1 PM). (I still have openings tomorrow, Friday, and one on Saturday at 10 AM)

Happy Summertime!

xo

Heidi

P.S. If you’re from these parts, do you recognize where I was walking while I sang the Summertime song?