Clean Bones Please

Somebody put out a call for clean dry bones in an email blast and imagine my satisfaction in knowing I had those very things – and not even buried in my cellar either. I just so happen to have bought a bin o’ bones, an entire person’s worth, during the six years when I practiced massage therapy, and there was one of the stranger detours I have taken in my life;  I’m still not completely clear about what road it set me back down on.I do know I’m a more enthusiastic writer now, grateful to be doing work that doesn’t drive pain up my arms and into my already-messed-up neck; but it also gave me the ability to SEE things in people, through this kind of  invisible eye that slowly opened up in my chest area as more and more I looked upon the bent human frames that appeared on my table. It may sound cheesy, like someone ripping off early Steven Spielberg - ET’s ‘I’ll be right here' as he pointed a bulbous fingertip at his heart - but  is a real and true thing as anyone in the healing  professions will tell you.The best thing I learned studying structure in those years is that we are all burdened; that we all hurt. Look at the person at the Post Office window next time you step up to it; really look at the way he is holding himself, the way one shoulder droops, the way the head is inclined a certain way like Meredith Veiera’s (see?)  Broken kites all of us.But the bones, the shining bones in whose innermost parts the blood is made! God knew what he was doing when he gave us the bones!