I hate instruction manuals that number their pages with a dot, like 1.01; 2.27; and I hate outlines that do the same. What’s wrong with consecutive numbering, or the good old-fashioned I, A, 1, a, etc.?
And yet I see that for some reason I titled my previous post Rolfing 1.01, as if there were going to be many sections about my first session before I moved on to the second. Well, there was a next event involving a trip to the ER, but it had nothing to do with Rolfing Session One, or with my head floating so gently on Atlas, despite what my husband thought (“And what did you do differently in the past week?” “Well, I dug up a tree root and fell down on the driveway and oh yes, I got Rolfed.”).
It was a bit of a weird thing, though, in that I landed on the opposite side from the shoulder that didn’t start hurting until the next day. And also weird in that, after one naproxen, the shoulder that couldn’t even support a coffee cup was totally fine. As has been my hip.
Which brings us to Rolfing, Session Two. (“I had in mind some gentle walking, not necessarily heavy shoveling and falling,” she said.)
It’s almost like being here, lying on that table. (This is Chip, watching evening descend over the island we camped on in Maine.)
Something gently happens to muscles and bones in my feet, in my neck, and, yes, my shoulder. An hour, or two, or only half, goes by.
Walk around the room, she says. Let your head float on the top of your neck. (Who knew heads were supposed to float on necks? My head, trained for ballet, grew up balancing books.)
Train home; head floats.