Why I’m a Massage Therapist
(when I could probably do almost anything else)
by Andrew Yavelow (©2012)
Earlier this year, at the hot springs resort where I work in California, I unexpectedly ran into someone I grew up with. I came out of one of the soaking pools, and there he was, naked — as most people are, around our pools — looking very much the same as he had over 40 years earlier, when we were in Hebrew school together in Scarsdale, New York. Scarsdale, in case you don’t know, is a bedroom community 21 miles by commuter train from Manhattan, where, in the late ‘50s, ‘60s and early ‘70s, when we were growing up, lots of rich and powerful people were known to live.
I hadn’t seen this man since we had graduated from high school, and don’t remember having had much to do with him ever: we ran in different circles, and each of us had a good dose of social awkwardness. But I recognized his nose and the light in his eyes, and so I spoke his name and approached him where he was standing, waiting to use the shower. It can be tricky approaching people naked. There’s a vulnerability to it that we don’t have with our clothes on: it’s just you, exactly as you are; no hiding. So when I first called out this man’s name, he took a protective step backwards — a natural reaction from any sensibly wary Manhattanite, which I later learned this man had been for more than 30 years. But when I told him my own name, and mentioned Hebrew School in Scarsdale, he stepped forward with surprised delight and happily shook my hand.
“What are you DOING here?” he asked. A reasonable question for any boy from Scarsdale. Harbin Hot Springs, you see, is quite unlike our home town. It’s a rural retreat of nearly 15,000 acres of unspoiled land, pure water and clean air, where people from the San Francisco area — and all over the world — come to relax and recharge from the stresses of life. We have no TVs or wireless internet, no cell phones, no drugs or alcohol. It’s peaceful, slow, quiet; and folks come to enjoy the sun, soak in the waters, receive bodywork, do yoga, dance, and take workshops in healing, relationships, and sexuality. It’s also a residential community, where 155 of us live and work together. “I’ve been living here for almost a decade,” I explained. And my friend — who has been flying across the country every year since the mid ‘80s, just to visit Harbin for a few days — grabbed his head in wonder, smiled hugely, and said, “You escaped from Scarsdale and moved here? You are my hero!”
That felt good!
I didn’t have time to talk to him more, just then; I had to get to work. My job at Harbin is doing massage and other types of bodywork; and much to my surprise, my friend scheduled a session with me for the next day. When he came in for our session, he explained that he usually received massages from one of the other therapists on our staff (we have over 40); but he wanted to give me a try, and to “hear the backstory” of how I ended up here, in hippieville, doing what I do. So I asked him what was up with his body, as I do with every new client, asked him to lie down on the massage table, and proceeded to go to work on his body, and to tell him my history at the same time.
I revealed to this man — lying naked and vulnerable to the touch of my hands — that I had had an abusive and traumatic childhood. I explained that my mother (who had been a teacher at one of the elementary schools in our town for a couple of years) had been a wounded, angry, and imbalanced woman incapable of love, and that she had abused me physically and emotionally from infancy. I explained that the results of these experiences included deep self-loathing, depression, a tendency to hurt myself (I’ve had 13 broken bones), and a propensity to, as we bodyworkers say, “leave my body” — to dissociate from the emotions and sensations that my body experienced. I described to him how, at age 28, I started ongoing psychotherapy for the first time, and how, shortly thereafter, I received a flood of recovered memories about specific instances of abuse; and how at that moment, from the shattered depths of my being, I knew I had only two choices: either to kill myself, or to do whatever it took to become well.
At the same time I was talking about all of this, I was also feeling my way into this man’s tissues and energy system. Feeling his areas of holding. Feeling his patterns of use and guarding. Working deeply into the fascia and muscles and attachments, coaxing things to soften, to open, to let go of their own stories and traumas. And I continued with my story, recounting the process of disengaging from my family, of moving away to the mountains of Vermont, where I felt safe to feel and rage and act out. I talked about the most powerful of the myriad types of therapies I had received; and I explained the crucial importance of hands-on bodywork — bodywork like he was receiving from me right now — in my still-unfolding process of learning to allow myself actually to feel, trust, and love myself and others. And I described how, after years of receiving touch like this, bodywork just began to pour out of my hands; and that 15 years ago, it became my livelihood as a practitioner and, soon after, a teacher.
And at some point during all this, in a pause from my speaking, he began to talk. He talked about his experiences growing up: the pain of life in our status-conscious and power-focused town, where success was mandatory, weakness exploited, and differences not tolerated. He talked about his life now, including his happy, long, primary relationship, and the recent death of his father — with whom he had a profound and beautiful bond. He talked about love and hope and aging. He talked about his body, about how it had changed, and about what he was feeling right now, here, as I continued to touch and work with his tissues. “I’ve never had any massage that was anything even close to this,” he said; and he stopped talking, and allowed himself to feel deeply into what our two bodies and beings were doing together. Then, at some point, deep emotion began to arise in him, and it filled and overflowed; and as it did, a wellspring of emotion arose and overflowed in me, too. It was such a beautiful meeting.
Two 50-something men, strangers but for a few years of common history. Two kids, brought back together decades later through time and fate, and the memory of a particular shape of broken nose. Two human beings, each willing to be vulnerable, and so each feeling seen, understood, and appreciated by the other. Two people, sharing of themselves openly with each other, and each feeling deeply healed in the process.
I could have been anything I wanted to be; I had the brains, the talent, and the opportunities. But life dealt me a particular hand, and the choice I made — to do, and continue to do, whatever it takes to be well — has been a gift to me, and through me, to so many of the people I touch. Because what we all really want — more than money, power, looks, sex, or anything else — is to be loved. To be seen, understood, and simply, unconditionally, loved.
I am a massage therapist, and that’s both the service I give, and the bounty I receive.
I hadn’t seen this man since we had graduated from high school, and don’t remember having had much to do with him ever: we ran in different circles, and each of us had a good dose of social awkwardness. But I recognized his nose and the light in his eyes, and so I spoke his name and approached him where he was standing, waiting to use the shower. It can be tricky approaching people naked. There’s a vulnerability to it that we don’t have with our clothes on: it’s just you, exactly as you are; no hiding. So when I first called out this man’s name, he took a protective step backwards — a natural reaction from any sensibly wary Manhattanite, which I later learned this man had been for more than 30 years. But when I told him my own name, and mentioned Hebrew School in Scarsdale, he stepped forward with surprised delight and happily shook my hand.
“What are you DOING here?” he asked. A reasonable question for any boy from Scarsdale. Harbin Hot Springs, you see, is quite unlike our home town. It’s a rural retreat of nearly 15,000 acres of unspoiled land, pure water and clean air, where people from the San Francisco area — and all over the world — come to relax and recharge from the stresses of life. We have no TVs or wireless internet, no cell phones, no drugs or alcohol. It’s peaceful, slow, quiet; and folks come to enjoy the sun, soak in the waters, receive bodywork, do yoga, dance, and take workshops in healing, relationships, and sexuality. It’s also a residential community, where 155 of us live and work together. “I’ve been living here for almost a decade,” I explained. And my friend — who has been flying across the country every year since the mid ‘80s, just to visit Harbin for a few days — grabbed his head in wonder, smiled hugely, and said, “You escaped from Scarsdale and moved here? You are my hero!”
That felt good!
I didn’t have time to talk to him more, just then; I had to get to work. My job at Harbin is doing massage and other types of bodywork; and much to my surprise, my friend scheduled a session with me for the next day. When he came in for our session, he explained that he usually received massages from one of the other therapists on our staff (we have over 40); but he wanted to give me a try, and to “hear the backstory” of how I ended up here, in hippieville, doing what I do. So I asked him what was up with his body, as I do with every new client, asked him to lie down on the massage table, and proceeded to go to work on his body, and to tell him my history at the same time.
I revealed to this man — lying naked and vulnerable to the touch of my hands — that I had had an abusive and traumatic childhood. I explained that my mother (who had been a teacher at one of the elementary schools in our town for a couple of years) had been a wounded, angry, and imbalanced woman incapable of love, and that she had abused me physically and emotionally from infancy. I explained that the results of these experiences included deep self-loathing, depression, a tendency to hurt myself (I’ve had 13 broken bones), and a propensity to, as we bodyworkers say, “leave my body” — to dissociate from the emotions and sensations that my body experienced. I described to him how, at age 28, I started ongoing psychotherapy for the first time, and how, shortly thereafter, I received a flood of recovered memories about specific instances of abuse; and how at that moment, from the shattered depths of my being, I knew I had only two choices: either to kill myself, or to do whatever it took to become well.
At the same time I was talking about all of this, I was also feeling my way into this man’s tissues and energy system. Feeling his areas of holding. Feeling his patterns of use and guarding. Working deeply into the fascia and muscles and attachments, coaxing things to soften, to open, to let go of their own stories and traumas. And I continued with my story, recounting the process of disengaging from my family, of moving away to the mountains of Vermont, where I felt safe to feel and rage and act out. I talked about the most powerful of the myriad types of therapies I had received; and I explained the crucial importance of hands-on bodywork — bodywork like he was receiving from me right now — in my still-unfolding process of learning to allow myself actually to feel, trust, and love myself and others. And I described how, after years of receiving touch like this, bodywork just began to pour out of my hands; and that 15 years ago, it became my livelihood as a practitioner and, soon after, a teacher.
And at some point during all this, in a pause from my speaking, he began to talk. He talked about his experiences growing up: the pain of life in our status-conscious and power-focused town, where success was mandatory, weakness exploited, and differences not tolerated. He talked about his life now, including his happy, long, primary relationship, and the recent death of his father — with whom he had a profound and beautiful bond. He talked about love and hope and aging. He talked about his body, about how it had changed, and about what he was feeling right now, here, as I continued to touch and work with his tissues. “I’ve never had any massage that was anything even close to this,” he said; and he stopped talking, and allowed himself to feel deeply into what our two bodies and beings were doing together. Then, at some point, deep emotion began to arise in him, and it filled and overflowed; and as it did, a wellspring of emotion arose and overflowed in me, too. It was such a beautiful meeting.
Two 50-something men, strangers but for a few years of common history. Two kids, brought back together decades later through time and fate, and the memory of a particular shape of broken nose. Two human beings, each willing to be vulnerable, and so each feeling seen, understood, and appreciated by the other. Two people, sharing of themselves openly with each other, and each feeling deeply healed in the process.
I could have been anything I wanted to be; I had the brains, the talent, and the opportunities. But life dealt me a particular hand, and the choice I made — to do, and continue to do, whatever it takes to be well — has been a gift to me, and through me, to so many of the people I touch. Because what we all really want — more than money, power, looks, sex, or anything else — is to be loved. To be seen, understood, and simply, unconditionally, loved.
I am a massage therapist, and that’s both the service I give, and the bounty I receive.
