Seeds In My Purse

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Yesterday, I had my weekly acupuncture appointment.

A few years in Mexico, I had some brutal knee pain. The pain was strongest when I went up and down stairs. At the time, I worked a job with a deep set of stairs that I had to go up and down regularly over the course of the day. Murphy’s Law and all that.

My friend S saw me on the stairs. Insisted that I go with her for her next acupuncture appointment. I told her no, and continued my hobbling. But the pain was excruciating, and those stairs weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. I finally relented.

After just one session, my knee pain was reduced to almost nothing. And there was next-to-no talking involved. Just a silence that healed me.

S eventually started going to another acupuncturist, and recommended that I check this one out as well. R was interested, so we started going together.

O was a woman in her 70’s. Originally from Spain, she came to Mexico after she married her Mexican husband. He had died a few years earlier. O also lost a son. And yet she still managed to bring her playful humor to this life, always joking about she was dying for a smoke when she had given up cigarettes many years ago.

R and I would sit in her snug office, a front room in her small house. She’d read our pulses.

And while one of us was getting treated, the other would stay in the room.  We’d usually read the books we brought.

The space in those moments hummed with a clean and open energy.

Afterwards, we’d leave her house holding hands, strolling down the middle of the streets in O’s quiet and residential neighborhood, looking at the flowers and the trees. R would pick up seeds from the ground, to plant them later at our house. He’d give them to me as we were walking, and I’d put them in my purse.

No matter how we were feeling before the appointment about ourselves and/or each other, afterwards there was always a peaceful shift.

I like the acupuncture clinic that I go to here in Downtown Oakland, I do.

I just miss seeds in my purse, R’s hand in mine.

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