“Universal energy,” she explains. “I take the bad energy out and replace it with good energy.” Corrine is trained in Reiki. She's tall, lean, early thirties, has tattooed arms and five ear-piercings on each ear. She’s attractive, open, and is stoked about her job. Power conduit. Yeah. I can see that. She promises I’ll feel energized when it’s over; the feeling might last three days. I beat back the scientist in my head who's insisting that all I need is good rub-down not some bogus, touchy-feely, energy-altering, funkified version of a massage that supposedly lasts for three days. Still, I’m open-minded. I should at least give it a shot before I form any damning opinions. I smile and shrug—“Sure, I’m game.”
I’m robed and ready. Corrine holds the sheet up and has me lie on my back. Weird. In my experience, massages always start lying stomach down. I recline as directed. She lays out my limbs in a way I suppose makes the energy flow better or some such thing, and begins passively. Her hands hover over my feet, then hands, then, face—never making contact. Her warmth is palpable, especially to my perpetually cold feet. She’s a human radiator. I think, “Never mind the hot hands! I’m paying seventy-five dollars for an hour of massage and she’s playing flying saucer. This better get a lot better in the next fifty minutes.”
Finally, contact—my left hand, then arm. She rubs, rotates, and swings the limb. Is she trying to see how loose I am? She moves to my right, performing the same ritual. She asks if I’m left-handed. I’m surprised. I am left-handed, but not exclusively. For a lefty, I do plenty with my right hand. I’ve always imagined I’m somewhat evenly arranged. Not so. Apparently I’m lopsided—just like everyone else.
My arms, now liberally loosened, she advances to my head. A head rub, now? This always comes last. I’m stuck in Swedish massage mode. I’m into the scalp stroking, but it’s the foot massage that really gets me. When my feet get fondled I’ll be better able to gauge this rub-down.
Corrine has read my mind. Feet follow and she means business. She’s not only doing my toes, each one separately, she’s rubbing between my toes, deeply and thoroughly going over ever millimeter of flesh between my digits. It’s personal, intimate. No one touches between my toes except me, and usually only for cleaning. Not even my husband, who has been known to suck on my toes, treats them thusly. The pedi-procedure continues, but the details are fuzzy. Post-massage, Corrine tells me she worked on my internal organs through my feet. I’ll have to confer with my liver, later. This massage is on the upswing.
Next—legs. Uncovering the left she finds an extensive, longitudinal scar over my knee. She lightly runs her finger over it. I’ve never been touched this way. The cicatrix always gets noticed because it’s so obvious. I usually joke that it’s an old football injury. Corrine’s touch is confidential; it tells me “I know what you’ve been through.” She traces its curved path from my lower thigh to my upper calf and I wonder if she can sense that I’ve lost feeling along the hash-marked contour. She says nothing. I’ve slipped something by her.
She bares my right leg, finds two more scars above and one below my kneecap. Again, her finger acknowledges their presence. Her touch is … intimate, penetrating. Having her attend to these ancient wounds is sensual, extraordinary. I’m jolted by a sense of union. This is the first time I’ve had a massage where I’m getting more contact than expected. This isn’t just a massage. It’s more like a private exploration; I’m feeling a connection I’ve never felt during a massage. I should say something. But what?
She has me roll onto my stomach and works on my calves. She does a rolling motion with her thumbs and heels of her hands. The pressure is good but wavers between tickling and pain. I finally wince at the pressure. She lightens up, and asks me if I wear high heels. Nailed! I do wear heels, sometimes high, sometimes not, but usually I’m somewhat elevated. I think she may pronounce judgment on my vanity. Just shy of 5’8”, why do I need to make myself even taller? I’m ready to defend—pants are made to accommodate heels—but she doesn’t comment. Now we both know; it’s doing something to my muscles, imparting a telltale, high-heel signature. I wonder what this means but I don’t ask. I don’t really want to know.
As she works up calf number two, tingling marches its way up of calf number one. Soon, that same sensation ascends calf number two. I describe what I’m feeling. Corrine, the Conduit Queen, tells me it’s the universal energy. Amazing. I’ve never felt such an organized and obvious invasion of —for the sake of argument, I’ll call it energy— into my body. The stuff seems to know what to do and where to go. I relax, not wanting to disturb the flow.
Lower legs complete, she moves to my upper legs, butt, and back. Corrine makes long, fluid swipes down my back, rear, and thighs. The movement connects my parts, no longer separate cuts of meat. The flow continues and I relax in the current—a new sensation.
Midway through my back Corrine says, “You think a lot.” If you’re not thinking, you’re dead. Everyone thinks a lot. Just ask Rene Descartes. I ask her what she means. She’s detected enhanced circulation via my head pulse. The heat coming off my skull is intense, she says. Not convinced I think more than average, I confess I’m a scientist and work with scientists and that we certainly think our share of thoughts during the day. Now, of course, I’m thinking about thinking and wondering if I do, in fact, think a lot—relatively speaking. Equally possible: I’m due for a stroke soon and she’s detecting a pre-blowout pulse heightening.
I think back to what she said originally, that I‘d feel energized over the coming days. I wonder how other clients feel after Reiki and if it’s possible to get an unbiased response. If you’re highly suggestible, the mere mention of increased energy level will have a causal effect. The statement becomes a placebo. While I’m hashing this out, the massage ends. Corrine tells me to take my time getting up and she leaves me with my continuing, cacophonous, cogitation.
Next day, Saturday, I do feel energized. I take my son on his errands and manage to avoid a full-on throttling of my dear but exasperating teenager in Longs’—no easy feat, I assure you. The rest of the morning and into the afternoon I’m a hedge-trimming machine. Bushes thoroughly whacked by 3:00 p.m., I have time to shower, grocery shop and make dinner. I am extremely productive.
While I’m preparing dinner, my son does his homework at the kitchen table, my husband helps him and I reflect on our day. I think about getting things done, my husband working inside, me working outside, my son washing the car, cleaning his room, doing his homework and having time for video games. I think about dinner, sitting down to eat together—just having a day, a good day, where things get done and are even-keeled. Nothing huge or particularly wonderful happens but it feels like this is how it always should be. I tell my husband that today things feel right, like they are happening in just the right way at just the right time. What I feel is contained bliss.
How much of this has to do with Reiki? I don’t know. Suggestion can be a powerful thing. I have no idea how long the feeling will last but I don’t want to ruin the flow by overanalyzing. I enjoy the momentum of the waves—balanced sufficiency. I appreciate the tangibles without trying to understand them. It’s good. It’s enough.
Sadly, this may be a singular, never-again-in-my-lifetime event. A month later I tried to book an appointment with Corrine, but she was gone. I worry that trying Reiki with anyone else might pollute or diminish my experience. Better one amazing, mind-opening massage in a lifetime than none at all.