The test results are in

Guess who aced the skeletal test? One hundred percent, baby.
Happy dance!

It's Friday Night...

...do you know where your acromion is? I do.
Studying on a Friday night. ::sigh::
(When I ace the test next week, remember this.)

Expected Towels, Unexpected Oils

Thanks to our syllabus, I expected to learn and practice towel techniques in hands-on class tonight (towel techniques: working on top of the towel that's draped over the client). The herbal oils, however, came as a surprise. A delightful surprise, indeed.

We applied five drops of each oil (see below) directly on our partner's back, along the spine. After gently rubbing it in, we re-covered our partner with the towel and proceeded to practice towel techniques. If you'd like to know more about towel techniques such as the spinal torque and the elephant walk, you have but to offer yourself upon my table; I'll show you.

I'd love to share more about tonight's class with you. Instead, I think I'll take me straight to bed and, mmmm, savor the herbal oil that's still penetrating my spine and feel the echoes of my classmate's firm strokes along my back, shoulders, neck...

G' night, me lovelies!

* * *

Peppermint Oil & Herbal Adjustment
Herbal ADJ ingredients: Capsicum, Indian Tobacco, Siberian Ginseng, Blue Vervain, Black Cohosh
Peppermint oil has a cooling effect, herbal ADJ has a warming effect. Used together, the two oils produce a sort of herbal "icy-hot" sensation. "This is a quick-acting, dramatically effective procedure for relief of headaches, cramping, arthritic discomfort, sports injuries, back discomfort, neck and shoulder tension." [From Herbal Extracts: Build Better Health with Liquid Herbs by Dr. A.B. Howard]

Irene & Energy Work

Irene Gauthier visited our hands-on class on Thursday night to participate in our first lesson in energy work (see links below for info). While I practiced on my classmate, Irene stood beside me and placed her fingertips lightly at each end of my biceps. Her fingers began moving in tiny circles, which she said she was not doing herself. "That's the energy," she said, "you see? You feel it?"

I tried so hard to believe, or not to disbelieve. No, I thought, I'm sorry to say I don't feel it. What I do feel is you -- 87-year-old healer and founder of this school -- touching me. I don't feel anything unusual in my arm, but I know who you are, and I accept the honor of your touch as energy enough. Just then, Irene's fingers stopped their circling, and an undeniable jolt ran from the center of my biceps to each end of the muscle, down to my elbow and up to my shoulder. My neck and head shot upright, too, although that, I'm certain, was a physiological response to the surprise I felt.

So I felt a jolt, so what? I can hardly call it a healing, as I had no pain or known issues in my arm. I could call it a nifty example of what we can do when we simply close a circuit of energy around a single muscle. I could also call it a fluke. There are all sorts of possibilities, but I want to choose one. I want to select just the right spot in the soil to place this particular seed of experience. That spot looks something like this: A healer touched me and said silently, Go thou and do likewise. Whether that ground is fertile, time will tell.

Energy Medicine General info @ answers.com
Craniosacral Therapy General info @ answers.com
Reiki Therapy @ Beaumont Hospital

Body Awareness

Instead of lecture Tuesday night, we had a class called Body Awareness. Other than what the course title and the instructions to "wear loose-fitting clothing" might imply, I had no idea what to expect. I just knew it'd be good.

So it was, and so it is.

Our teacher, Michael Rice, spoke for nearly an hour on the importance of taking care of our bodies. (I can't do him justice here; suffice it to say that Michael is a live wire, and his energy is infectious.) While listening intently, sitting on the floor cross-legged and erect, I cheered inside as I thought about the me of one or two years ago who would have felt utterly discouraged for being fat and out of shape, all what was I thinking, trying to be a massage therapist?, the me who could not have sat cross-legged for that long without pain. No, I wasn't thinking of that me, exactly; I was noticing the difference. I noticed me, here and now, strength in my legs, endurance in my abdomen, and enthusiasm running the length of my spine like electricity, tiny charges jumping out my fingertips and toes. And it was good.

Then we moved. For two hours, we stretched, marched, bent this way and that, pushed up and pushed down, moved every joint in our bodies in every direction they're meant to move, and we stretched again. There I was, 44 years old and overweight, exercising among nearly 50 students, most of whom are in their 20s, and I kept up and I breathed deeply and I felt great. I felt great!

So I did, and so I do.

Elective: Hands

I attended my first elective last weekend: Hands on Hands. Not to be confused with my weekly hands-on class, Hands on Hands is a 16-hour workshop that covers caring for one's own hands as well as techniques to be used on the client.

Among the techniques covered were reflexology, acupressure, and meridians, each being more or less an introduction, while the focus was on massage techniques for both relaxation and stimulation. One of our hand massage sessions began at the neck and shoulders, which felt great when my classmate practiced on me. Massage techniques on the hands include working the webs between fingers, manipulating the metacarpals (the bones in the palm area), and, of course, some terrific finger work. I can incorporate hand massage into a full body massage, or I can spend a full one-hour session on the hands alone.

Hands are wonderful, aren't they? I love hands.

Middlesex by J. Eugenides

Or, My Cousin Jeffrey

29 October 2006, Marygrove College
Detroit, Michigan

L to R: Olga of Olga's Kitchen, Yours Truly, and Jeffrey Eugenides

One fine day in 2002...

I'm reading this new book about a Greek hermaphrodite, and I'm thinking, Gee, Calliope's family history is a lot like mine. I can't wait to finish the book and pass it along to Dad. Save for the incest, hermaphroditism, adolescent love, and shifting gender identities, Dad will love it.

And then, right here on page seven, I find Uncle Pete: Lifelong bachelor, tall, prune-faced, sad-seeming, wavy hair, lover of Italian opera, a chiropractor in Birmingham, Michigan, had stomach surgery and drank Pepsi for the pepsin that was in it. That's Uncle Pete. My Uncle Pete! Only two things about this character are not factual: 1) his last name, and 2) that he wasn't interested in children. Poppycock! Uncle Pete loved me. That's probably because I was the most adorable pain-in-the-butt child he had ever known.

I finish the novel then loan it to my father, a 76 year old man of letters. Greek letters, that is. Dad is an immigrant. His English is very good, but the bulk of his intelligence and experience resides within the Greek language. In Greece, Dad held the national title for the 100m dash in track and field, escaped Nazi capture, joined the Resistance, was a lieutenant during the Greek civil war, had been decorated with medals and honors, and became an instructor of physical education. In the US, he was a chef.

Dad reads the book. During my next visit the following week, he comes downstairs holding my copy of Middlesex, sits across from me, pats the book thoughtfully, and says, "This is very good book, very good. But. Is not true story."

"No," I say, "it's not. It's fiction."

"Whatever you gonna call it, it don't matter. Is not true story."

"I know, Dad. It's a novel."

"Ya, but I tell you, is not true!"

I skip the definition of "fiction" and "novel" and instead let Dad know that he's right. This is not a true story.

Dad tells me that the author's grandfather and my grandmother were first cousins. I think to myself, Oh for pity's sake, Dad, you don't know that. It's not a true story, remember? While Dad is talking, I'm looking at the book cover, and it suddenly dawns on me: Eugenides (you-JEN-eh-deez) and Ευγενίδης (ev-yen-NEE-thees), my paternal grandmother's maiden name, are the same name. How I made it through the entire novel without making that connection, I don't know.

Even with the Eugenides name and Uncle Pete's appearance in the book, I don't know why Dad thinks that he knows the author's family history.

Dad tells me that Jeffrey's grandfather was George Eugenides. George married Victoria. George's and Victoria's son Costa was born in America, Costa married an American gal, and Jeffrey is their son.

"Dad. How can you know all that?"

"Because. I know."

"Yeah, but." I don't believe my father. "How can you know all that from this book?"

"I deen' know Costa's son is name Jeffrey, and I deen' know he writes a book. Is good book. But is not true. They's no brother and sister get married in our family! Bah."

At home, I spend hours researching online. I finally read somewhere that Jeffrey's father's name is Costa and that Costa married an American woman. If Dad is right (and he's always right), then Jeffrey and I are third cousins, our fathers were second cousins, and Jeffrey's grandfather George and my grandmother Victoria were first cousins.

My grandmother's name was Victoria, and her first cousin George Eugenides married a woman named Victoria, which set my heart to racing, I tell you what, given the novel's incest, but alas, no. Two different Victorias. My Yiayia Victoria married out of the Eugenides name, and Jeffrey's Yiayia Victoria married into the Eugenides name. Phew.

Fast forward to 2006. I attend a book signing at Marygrove College in Detroit, and I bring with me a photo of Uncle Pete. I don't want to be one of those fans, so when it's my turn to have my book signed, I simply slide the photo in front of Jeffrey and say, "This is Uncle Pete. I'm your third cousin," and I let Jeffrey take the lead from there. He takes the photo, sits back in his chair, and smiles. Being one of those fans, I take his body language as an invitation to conversation, so I add, "Your grandfather George and my grandmother Victoria were first cousins."

"No kidding," Jeffrey says, still smiling. "You know, it's amazing how many times this has happened. I was in Switzerland not long ago, and..."

"Niko? Niko Eugenides, your cousin the doctor?"

"Yes," Jeffrey said, surprised. "How did you know?"

I think I answered with more of an Italian accent than Greek. "Eh, he's a my cousin, too!"

My brief but delightful chat with the author was enough to end all doubt. Dad was right. I am related to Jeffrey Eugenides.

Is true story.


Jonathan Safran Foer interviews J. Eugenides

Hands-On Class

Raise your hand if you've had at least one professional massage. ::counts raised hands::. Okay, now raise your hand if you've experienced an altered state of consciousness during a professional massage. Anyone? I'm talking about a trance or trance-like state. You're not asleep, but you're not awake; you know where you are, but you're not sure you're here. Yes? No? Anyone? My hand is raised.

When our teacher, Randy, asked how it went, I described my experience, and in the sweetest voice he said, "You were receiving."

Receiving. Think on that today.

One Fine Day in Court...

(Divorce court, if you didn't already know.) Our settlement conference was this morning. It was quite uneventful. The judge says this, the attorney says that, Dave and I nod, blah blah, the final hearing is set for mid-August, and ::poof::, it's over. Ten minutes. We were out of there in ten minutes, for goodness sake. Not that I'm complaining -- quick is good -- and I wasn't expecting Judge Mathis or anything, but, golly. It was all I could do to keep from asking the judge to bang her gavel just once, just for me. :-P

I have Hands-on class tonight. (Hands-on = give massage, get massage. Every week, woo hoo!)

Meet Emmanuel

This is my skeleton for anatomy class. (He's not half the man he used to be, heh.) I call him Emmanuel, and I shall dress him in muscles of clay.

In class last night, our anatomy teacher, Garry Adkins, told us that the best way to learn about muscles is to feel them. He encouraged us to touch ourselves. Often. Some students snickered, but not me. So serious and diligent a student am I, so devoted to my studies, that I immediately obeyed my teacher.

Biceps, silly. I was feeling my biceps.

I've always wondered how my doctor can determine which organ is where, what size, and whether anything is amiss just by pressing on my abdomen. I'm beginning to understand now. Books and models help, but the learning is in the hands. Learning occurs when my hands recognize what my mind expects to find. Touch meets imagination. Glory! It's amazing.

Feeling your own biceps probably doesn't leave you awestruck. However, to feel your biceps and, eyes closed, follow it down to the point of insertion, to feel the place where the muscle narrows and the tendon connects to your bone, well. I don't know about you, but having lived in this body for over 40 years, I am amazed to have met a part of me that I had never met before.

The mind cannot forget what the hands have learned.
-- Jon Zahourek