David "The Pain Killer"

Just as your head was cradled by your mother,
And as you have cradled your infant’s head,
Your head is now cradled in the table.
In the touch of massage we are as intimate
With another human being as one human
Being can be with another.
Once we touch, we are connected as one human body,
Attached to one another as the fetus
To the wall of its mother’s uterus.
Your mother’s watery womb was once your home.
When the time was ripe, you slid and struggled through her birth canal.
Her body was the first to caress you and give you form and sustenance.
As a sculptor molding clay, my hands squeeze and spread your tissue.
Massage is the deepest intimacy known.
Intimacy is to know, and to be known.
In massage, I know, and you know that I know.
In massage I see far more than just your face,
Ironically masked from me while I execute the massage.
I have seen you with ten tiny little eyes implanted
In the tips of my fingers, palms, and hands.
Your meisner corpuscles are my microphone.
Massage is the soul’s Braille.
In massage we have the most intimate
Conversation, without speaking a word.
More than your eyes are the window to your soul
Is the whole Temple a sacrament to the soul’s flame within.
Massage is to me a sacred priestly profession.
I am the celebrating High Priest of every client’s Temple.
In Mass, the priest feeds our growth into the Mystical Body of Christ.
In massage, I am the Christ, the anointing one
Anointing you into wholeness and holiness.
The message of the massage is in loving yourself as God loves you,
In and for yourself alone, without condition or qualification.
Love is to be supported in being who you are.
The emphasis being on being, not doing
Anything, just lie there and absorb
The original love that first created you,
And gave you your body, your God and your Mother.
Could you possibly be regarded as more precious and free
Than you were by these two most important people in your life?
You men have a father after which you are modeled.
Your wife replaces your mother as your equal partner
To polish the work furnished her by your mother.
I work like a carpenter, as a carpenter works the graining of the wood,
I work the graining of your muscle tissue.
I work as a potter with a wheel of wet clay as wet
And as slippery as you were from the womb.
In massage I am a sculptor forming and reforming your soul
And body as one whole for you to get in touch with through my touch.
Like the baker forming his most wonderful loaves of bread,
I knead your arms and legs, the Italian biceps,
The French forearms, the soda bread buttocks,
To your licking digits, I caress,
Twirl, and introduce myself to you.
In massage I am like the silver smith forming
The neck of your candelabra
Supporting your bright shinning brain.
The cuffs of your ears catch the wax
From the smokeless burning flame within.
This is what I see, and this is what I feel when I massage.
I am the grandmaster at the ballroom,
Calling the coupled dancers into rhythm,
And watching my own creation.
I get to share your process most closely
With your God, and with your mother.
Say this is not the highest gift, next to life itself,
That one human being can bestow upon another,
The gift of touch.