I am back on Kelly's table in Nashville one week later. I am getting my soul re-arranged with her digging deep into my spine. No being told to breathe deep. No water if I ask for it. No fancy name for her technique. Relentless. Painful. I am squirming. When I ask Kelly if she had ever hurt anyone, she laughs and says no, but offers that she does carry liability insurance.
I am going in and out of the real world with my head in a padded hole. I remember what Woody Guthrie had written on his guitar, “this machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.” Kelly needs a sign above her door that reads, “This machine surrounds pain and forces it to surrender.” I leave a pool of muscle memory in that room worked out under sharp elbows and strong hands. I listen to the story of how Kelly’s father fought his doctor phobia so long he found himself in that silent white room with a huge angel wrapping it’s wings around him, before working his way back. This massage has me there and back again, too. She explains that people are afraid of her. She says, “Alot of guys are not able to be men.”
Most amazing is the aftermath. For all the deep tissue shuffling, there is no pain the next day. No stiffness. Nothing is sore. Just the most amazing energy. My head is spinning in the top of the doorways. When Jackson says, “RUN DADDY” - I sprint and lap him around the house. When I fly out to LA the next day - I am up until dusk in Tokyo.