Day 18 - the empath

the empath

Matthew Ryan Fischer

How many shoulders had she rubbed? She couldn’t count that high if she could even remember. The first had been a lifetime ago – over a quarter century or more. Her mother had called her a healer, a fixer. Back then she saw herself as a mediator between parents. And a fixer among friends. But she would take the title of healer. Physical pain was often rooted in emotional and a wound could be healed in any number of ways.

The room was a place of healing. The soft sounds of rain and percussion played in the background. The smells of scented oils wafted through the air. There were crystals on a table and paintings on the wall.

Her fingers were strong. Once upon a time she enjoyed the challenge of working out a tough not, rubbing a wounded muscle, breaking down someone’s inner stress or fixing their failing posture. She could find the right spot, the pressure point or muscle knot. Once upon a time she could work six seven or eight hours a day. Spas, gyms, hotels, private estates. Her fingers were strong. But her hands were tired. A lifetime of wear and tear and putting others before herself. How many more muscles could she rub? How many more spines could she straighten? The day would come, she knew. Perhaps her desire would fail before her body. Either say, the final day would someday come.

Each body told a story, even if she didn’t ask. She had seen sports wounds. War torn bodies. Post-surgery recoveries. Ruined knees. Deformed feet. She didn’t ask questions. Some people offered answers in advance, revealing insecurities or self-hatred. But she didn’t pry if it wasn’t her place.

Wounds, scars, brands, tattoos and any number of other natural or man-made physical vagaries. They all told a story, revealed a truth, a hint into the humane. She knew what self-inflicted looked like. She could guess which bruises were accidental and which weren’t.

She told herself stories. These moments in time and what these people were and what they could be. She had felt so many muscles, up and down and deeper or softer. More oil, different sounds, different energies. Over and over, so many times, to the point of a sort of meditative trance. She could zone out and still knew how many minutes per side, per arm, per leg and when that hour was almost up.

Very rarely, something new, something different caught her attention. It wasn’t always physical. Yes, there were sometimes new piercings or new tattoos that caught her eye. Some design, shaved or scarred. People could still surprise her. But sometimes, on rare occasion, the surprise was deep and emotional and not always clear. Sometimes it was pain. Other times fear. One man was angry. He didn’t say anything or do anything, and she never feared for her safety while he was there, but she knew he had anger in his heart. Most often it was sadness. Profound emptiness inside. People in pain with no answer, and her fingers at their strongest would not fix that.

She felt something in this man. For nearly an hour she had felt something and hadn’t quite figured out what. He was nervous and kept his eyes closed. But he looked at her towards the end, as if he had realized something or saw something in her. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know if she should be afraid of him or not. He seemed fearful of her. He opened his mouth to speak many times, but caught himself each time.

After it was over, when he was half out the door, he paused and turned back.

“You have a gift. A rare one.”

He stood there, mouth ajar as if he wanted to say more. Instead he nodded and gave her a look as if they shared a secret. She didn’t know what that meant.

After he left, she sat and thought. She felt and connection despite their limited conversation. She did sense a secret, an understanding, even if she didn’t know why or what it was. There as something special in that moment and she was certain she would remember it for a very long time.