This here thing happened about 3 or 4 weeks ago, and it's pretty fucking nifty:
I awoke remembering only part of the dream: A lone massage table, opened and dressed in the middle of my parents’ bare garage. That was all.
It was 7:00 in the morning, a Thursday, waking up for my 8 mile run made exponentially harder because of massage class the night before. Ironically, I don’t sleep well after massage class. You’d think rubbing and being rubbed for near 4 hours would be the recipe for the sleep of the dead, but for some reason, I wrestled each Wednesday night to surrender to just a few hours of rest.
I strapped on my shoes, downed a half-bagel, and headed outside into the swelling North Hollywood morning - my route on Thursdays, a bikepath that cuts straight through North Hollywood into Burbank; an in and out run of 8 miles that greeted me with a regular morning crew of walkers, fellow runners, and cyclists.
For the first half of the run, that image of the empty garage kept creeping back to me: A massage table, dressed, in the middle of the garage where I grew up. That’s all I could recollect. Then, at mile 4, my turn-around point, more details of the dream began to flow:
I remembered seeing myself walking towards the table, a client draped, face-down, upon it. I slowly approached and gently undraped his back. Oiling my hands, I began to effleurage, my hands feeling full and warm on his body. My fingers traced each and every muscle, instinctively going to the places in need of the most attention and applying gentle, loving touch, and as I massaged my client, I noticed tension releasing from my own body.
As I finished his back, speaking softly, I asked him to roll over, and as he did, I realized that it was ME. I sat at the head of the table and head-cradled the me on the massage table, shutting my eyes, giving attention only to the present moment. As I opened my eyes, I looked down at the table, and the client had become me, at 5 years old.
The dream transitioned, and I found myself standing beside 5 year old me, holding hands. It felt natural, beautiful, right. And then 5 year old me wrapped his arms about my waist.
The next thing that I knew, I was now on the table, the 5 year old me head-cradling me now. I felt a calm wash over me. The 5 year old me leaned over and kissed my forehead, placing his hand on my chest, saying the only words I’d hear the entire dream:
“I’m still in here.”
As I continued to run and the details of the dream came back to me, a huge release hit: I was unearthing something vitally important to me – myself, my true self, something so easily lost, and yet so easy to tap back into. Tears of joy, pain, fear, and love streamed down my cheeks as I strode effortlessly towards home in the glowing, Thursday morning sun.
I awoke remembering only part of the dream: A lone massage table, opened and dressed in the middle of my parents’ bare garage. That was all.
It was 7:00 in the morning, a Thursday, waking up for my 8 mile run made exponentially harder because of massage class the night before. Ironically, I don’t sleep well after massage class. You’d think rubbing and being rubbed for near 4 hours would be the recipe for the sleep of the dead, but for some reason, I wrestled each Wednesday night to surrender to just a few hours of rest.
I strapped on my shoes, downed a half-bagel, and headed outside into the swelling North Hollywood morning - my route on Thursdays, a bikepath that cuts straight through North Hollywood into Burbank; an in and out run of 8 miles that greeted me with a regular morning crew of walkers, fellow runners, and cyclists.
For the first half of the run, that image of the empty garage kept creeping back to me: A massage table, dressed, in the middle of the garage where I grew up. That’s all I could recollect. Then, at mile 4, my turn-around point, more details of the dream began to flow:
I remembered seeing myself walking towards the table, a client draped, face-down, upon it. I slowly approached and gently undraped his back. Oiling my hands, I began to effleurage, my hands feeling full and warm on his body. My fingers traced each and every muscle, instinctively going to the places in need of the most attention and applying gentle, loving touch, and as I massaged my client, I noticed tension releasing from my own body.
As I finished his back, speaking softly, I asked him to roll over, and as he did, I realized that it was ME. I sat at the head of the table and head-cradled the me on the massage table, shutting my eyes, giving attention only to the present moment. As I opened my eyes, I looked down at the table, and the client had become me, at 5 years old.
The dream transitioned, and I found myself standing beside 5 year old me, holding hands. It felt natural, beautiful, right. And then 5 year old me wrapped his arms about my waist.
The next thing that I knew, I was now on the table, the 5 year old me head-cradling me now. I felt a calm wash over me. The 5 year old me leaned over and kissed my forehead, placing his hand on my chest, saying the only words I’d hear the entire dream:
“I’m still in here.”
As I continued to run and the details of the dream came back to me, a huge release hit: I was unearthing something vitally important to me – myself, my true self, something so easily lost, and yet so easy to tap back into. Tears of joy, pain, fear, and love streamed down my cheeks as I strode effortlessly towards home in the glowing, Thursday morning sun.
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