ceelove

I am so sorry. For almost 20 years, I called you "boring." I was so wrong. You are a tireless and unsung workhorse of the body. The tide that washes us of detritus. The silent mystery underpinning the functionality of all those big obvious clodhopper systems like (bah) muscles and skin.

It is so very hard to know you. You can be detected mostly through your lack of absence: when we are made turgid by too much of you pooling within. Subtly, quiescently, patiently clogging up the gaps we didn't even know we had (let alone needed) until they are gone and something is just, indescribably, not right.

For twenty years, I've practiced massage with little more than an occasional roll of the eyes in your direction. Worse, even, I lauded love and attention on your sister system, the network of fascia that undergirds our every cell and organ. I even ignored the evidence of your importance in the times when myofascial work falls short. Voiceless, you proclaimed all along that when lymph ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

So I will endeavor to make you happy henceforth. Along with myofascial work and Thai massage, you will guide me in correcting dysfunction in the body. I will learn deeper listening than I knew possible, and be the lymph whisperer in return, holding conversations with you like atomic sighs. And sometimes, it seems, those will reverberate within you and come back to me like fireworks and voices of thunder shaking the body awake. I have seen; I know.

Oh, lymph, how glorious you are, how deserving of my fascination and amazement. Nevermore shall I neglect the wonder that is you.

Love, Me