Last Night I was a Stranger Amongst Strangers

Mooring Close to Home

Scurrying, scurrying

Dear Katie -

My back was such that I couldn’t hop out of the door hole that hovers above the ground where the porch once was. Any wrong move and I wince. I could barely get into child’s pose. I blamed it on the last two weeks. The standing on concrete for three days. The long car rides. The strange bed. I began the morning with a sauna which I usually save for the evenings — and lately — for not at all. The gathering of wood helped to break up the stuckness of corpse pose that I couldn’t abandon all night for the pain of any movement was worse than the pain of stillness. I did cat cow on the thin bench in the wet heat. Sweat dripped onto old sweat and ink splatters.

When my time was up I plunged into the not cold water. Dripping, I photographed Coreopsis, Pearly Everlasting, and a strange solitary Poppy, all in bloom amongst the abundance of garlic mustard and mile-a-minute. It is hard to know if my efforts are changing anything. I planted millions of seeds and hundreds of plugs.

By evening I messaged a friend for a recommendation for a massage therapist. I’ve had one massage in my life, in a small room in another country with a strange man. I’m sure I wrote you a letter about it. It was miraculous and more like synchronized yoga than massage. I was reminded of it when last night’s therapist was on the table with my feet in her hands, my legs raised and swinging. How could I have forgotten such an adventure?

A recommendation was texted and I called straight away.
”I would normally stay late but I have my first book club tonight!”
“What book?”
“Poser.”
“I have that though I’ve not read it.”
“Join us then!”

I cleaned the kitchen with more fervor than usual, made a roasted chickpea salad with whipped feta mint and cilantro to add to the table, ate way too fast, took another quick cold shower and was on my way.

Sweaty and late, I was welcomed by seven enthusiastic strangers. As a non-hugger I’ve come to welcome warm, unasked for, hugs. I don’t require a check-in. One of them told me to choose a basket with a rock in it and an accompanying quote. In the baskets were rocks with gold lettered words like hope, courage, love. I’ve never liked rocks with words on them. I struggle with baskets and quotes printed from Instagram. I never thought I’d need a massage. I could yoga or walk anything away. I chose a basket and sat down.

At the table I was a stranger amongst strangers. We introduced ourselves offering brief fragments of our lives. I didn’t once utter Peg and Awl. I didn’t take out my phone. We didn’t swap Instagram accounts. I sat at a table with teachers and small business owners including an acupuncturist, yoga studio sisters, and the massage therapist. I listened to thoughts about a book I’ve not read.

On the massage table, G____ worked on my back, her fingers pressed into nubs that felt like hard plastic models of places I’ve been at every juncture. The spot I’d gone in for was the least of it — the only place left with feeling. Her fingers felt like hot iron digging into my flesh. “It’s the sensory nerves,” she went onto explain. So that’s where I’ve been stuffing everything.

I could barely peel myself off of the table. In the hall, we chattered and I learned a few new yoga poses. I walked out into the breezy night and had a long wander around the town so close and so unfamiliar. It was late when I found my car. At home in bed next to Walter sleeping, I was finally able to lay on my side and open a book.

I read a little, but as I drifted off to sleep I relished the newness of being someone else so close to home.

Love,
Margaux

Pearly Everlasting, Coreopsis, Walter