There and Back Again

Pondering: Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains. (Diane Ackerman)

For the first time in my adult life, I had a massage. Not a back rub or the occasional neck massage my sister gives me but a full body, hot stone massage. I still don’t know what the big deal is about massages, that some people find it the most ultimate way to relax. It’s not that relaxing for me – in fact it’s stressful because it hurts and I have low tolerance for pain. Nonetheless, I had a good time on that massage table. The feel of hot stone against my skin was relaxing and soothing; more so than the muscle manipulations.

My massage therapist’s name was Jean. She is from the same country as me. She’s a nice girl; very polite, very quiet which is what I want my massage therapists to be – or pedicure specialist or hairdresser, etc., as I’m awkward with small talks and chitchats.

Anyway, as Jean was massaging away all the tension in my back, I had a flash of my childhood. I was sickly when I was a child. I always had respiratory problems, bronchitis being my number one ailment. For some reason, every time someone in the family was sick with cough, my mother would always call the local manghihilot - a.k.a. masseur or masseuse (usually the former than the later). We don’t consider them as massage therapists in the traditional sense, but rather as quack doctors. I can’t remember his name anymore, but I remember him being really old and wrinkly and his hands were huge and rough. He would show up to the house with a bottle of very green menthol oil and I would be quivering with fear at the sight of him because I associated him with pain. (Remember, I have low tolerance for pain.) At times, I thought he was chanting while rubbing my back with the cool oil, but that was probably just my imagination. You know how when you are young, all old people you don’t know have a potential for being a witch when the moon is full? I thought he was a witch with healing powers because he always, always made me feel better afterwards, despite the fear.

Then as Jean finished the therapy, she dimmed the lights even more and told me to relax for a few minutes while she fetched me hot tea and a host of products I knew she was going to try and sell me. Anyway, I lay there on that table, my eyes covered with warm towel, my whole body just melting away from the state of relaxation. I struggled not to doze off in fear that I might snore – how embarrassing! But I did doze off briefly and as I doze off I had a dream.

I dreamt I was coming home and greeting me at the airport were my brothers and sisters and my nieces and nephews. In this homecoming dream, everyone was still very young, especially the nieces and nephews. I haven’t seen them all for almost fourteen years. They are smiling and waving at me and I wave back. We all hug and the hug seemed so real. I hold on to them for a long time. They slipped through my arms just as I hear Jean quietly sneaking back in the room, the smell of chamomile tea wafting in the air. The images of my family disappear, the dream is over, and I am back where I was before the dream.

I guess the point of this entry is to say that memories from my childhood and my old home are moments that can never be again, and because they are nothing but a thought that you can’t hold in the palm of your hands or relive and revive like an old stage play, I don’t like thinking about them. Yet they always sneak up behind me at the most inopportune moment and they always leave me pondering and then longing.