Sometimes you just gotta splurge.
I used to think a massage was a luxury. It was something rich people did or at least something other people did. Finally, it was something I did once a year, maybe twice. Sixty minutes, tops.
Now it’s become a staple. I go every month.
And not just for sixty minutes.
No, I go for the gusto.
The 90 minute massage.
Decadence? You betcha.
My body loves every minute of it.
So does my soul.
It took a while to find the right place. I discovered Kivuli massage when I was getting my hair done. I struck up a conversation with another woman getting her hair done and just loved her energy and passion for life. This stranger buzzed with joy.
Cristin handed me her card. Kivuli Massage Therapy. What does kivuli mean? I asked.
It’s Swahili for a place of rest and respite, she said.
Who couldn’t use that?
So I took the card. And never went.
A few months later, I ran into her again at the hair salon. Coincidence? Could be. But I’m a believer that a coincidence is God being anonymous. This time, I set an appointment. Now I’m a regular. So is my daughter.
Cristin finds places my own body didn’t know needed help. Knots and twists and tangles.
She kneads them all out. I just relax and become putty in her hands.
A massage is good practice for letting go. You surrender into someone else’s hands. You let go for 90 minutes. You turn off the outer world and tune into the inner one. No calls, no texts, no emails. No one can reach you.
At the end, you ease back into your body and discover it to be your place of rest and respite.