I marvel at beauty. This week has been a masterpiece in the making.
My massage internship resulted in views of intricate tattoos, athleticism and grace unhampered by the years, mother/daughter bonds celebrating risk, and the generosity of friends. Like a first time visitor to the Museum of Fine Arts, my jaw sometimes dropped in awe.
While some might dismiss my assessment, I know without doubt that this week my hands were instruments of good, sometimes offering restoration beyond what "cross friction for better circulation could provide" and going straight to the mystical, spiritual realm.
I know there are massage therapists who will be able to go deeper than me, endure longer than me, and ascertain causes and solutions for stress and strain better than me. But I'm not swayed. Because my newfound "ministry" isn't about being the best. I know that I give rest to the weary, comfort to the tired, and blessings to each body on my table.
I am 49 years old. I am an instrument of good. And, because of that, I am my own work of art. I thank God for the inspiration.