In (what seems to be) my never ending search for healing and wholeness, last summer I found out about a somewhat local physical therapist who facilitates myofascial release, fascia being the connective tissue that touches and, well, connects everything in our bodies. (Even our spit is made of fascia.) And whereas I spoke to her and began making plans to see her, things came to a halt when I found out my insurance wouldn’t help with the cost. Not because the treatment wasn’t covered under my plan (it was and is), but because I’d run out of physical therapy visits for the year.

Thanks, knee surgery.

All this to say that now that it’s the new year and that I’ve seen my primary care physician and he’s sent in a referral for treatment, I finally got scheduled to see my–hum, what shall I call her?–myofascial release wizard (MFRW) today. Ugh. Sometimes things just take a while to fall into place. That’s okay, I thought on the drive there this morning. Maybe my body will be more receptive today than it would have been six months ago.

After an initial interview about my problems, complaints, and posture, my MFRW had me lie on her table, placed her hands on my hips, and began gently pushing on my psoas. “Fascia responds to low, consistent pressure,” she said, “so I’m just going to keep pushing for three to five minutes.” Well, sure enough, after a few minutes I felt things begin to melt, shift, and move about: across my hips, my lower back, my legs, and even my ribs. “Everything’s connected,” she said, “so one part can affect the whole. Just like a sweater is woven together, so are you woven together. What’s more, every person’s WEAVE is different, so no two people get bound up or let go in the same way.”

Letting go, I thought, that would be nice. And whereas part of me did, the entire time there was another part of me that kept wanting to tense against the release, to brace for–I don’t know–the other shoe to drop. Ugh. This has been my mostly unconscious but sometimes conscious habit for years. To tighten, to constrict, to hide, to protect. Alas, after decades of this, it’s become intolerable. My head aches. My shoulder hurts. My hips, move movements have become so–inflexible.

Which makes it hard, of course, to live.

After working on my hips and midsection, my MFRW steadily rocked me back and forth, a movement called rebounding. The idea is that our bodies are largely made up of water, and just as the waves of the ocean can break apart a child’s sandcastle, so too can the water in our bodies break up our stiffened fascia. “Notice what parts flow,” she said, “and what parts feel solid like coral reef.”

“That’s easy,” I said, “my hips feel like coral reef.”

Next she moved my head and shoulders (my actual head and shoulders, not my dandruff shampoo), where she compared myofascial release to everyone’s favorite food. “You can eat a frozen pizza,” she said, “but it won’t really taste good unless you first put it in the oven and get that melty, runny cheese. That’s what we want from your fascia, for it to really let go.” What’s great is that it did. As she pressed her hands down on my shoulders, I could feel my fascia release all the way down to my (hurting) shoulder, my lower back, and even my shins. Trippy, I know, but everything’s connected.

And get this shit. When she worked on my neck, the area that’s responsible for my headaches and that I’ve tried a hundred ways to force to relax, she held out a tuning fork and said, “May I?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m up for anything.”

Well, she tapped the tuning fork, and it began to vibrate. Then she held it against my neck, and things began to relax, to break up. Just like that. At the same time, I began to cry. “Sometimes emotions get stuck in our bodies,” she said. Go figure. All these things I’ve tried, all this pressure I’ve put on myself to heal, and yet this simple, small vibration cracked me open in a second.

Healing can happen in the blink of an eye.

Later I told my MFRW that for years I’ve carried an image in my head of a yoga instructor I once met whose hips looked so mobile, so free. “I used to be envious of him, like that could never be me,” I said, “but now I think I remember him because he’s an example of what’s possible.” I paused. “That’s what I want, that kind of freedom in my body.”

“What was the last time you felt that?” she said.

More crying. “Oh gosh,” I said. “Not since I was child.”

“So that’s your homework,” she said. “Remember when you felt that free. Remember what it looked like, felt like, sounded like, tasted like.” Additionally, I have two different stretches to do. Nothing forceful, just gentle, sustained pressure. “Wait for your body to let go,” she said. “Don’t force anything.” Lastly, I’m supposed to jiggle. (This should should be easy enough thanks to the chocolate cake I had last night.) jiggling being standing on both legs and just lightly bouncing around and, at the same time, bending over, leaning back. “If you feel something tense,” she said, “let the movement break it up.”

I can’t wait to try.

Now, did everything get fixed in one session? Of course not. Our problems aren’t created overnight, and they don’t go away overnight. So I go back next week. But I already feel looser in my body, I guess because we “took pressure out of the system.” This is a good thing. What’s even better is that I’m highly encouraged, both by my the treatment and my MFRW. And even more by my body. After the treatment I lay in a vibrating recliner (for more jiggling/rebounding), and I felt like it was saying, “Your mind may not remember what it was like to be free, but we do. We absolutely know what that felt like. And, sweetheart, we’re willing to go back there. We WANT to go back there. So just trust us. Let go and trust us. Trust yourself. Stop bracing. The worse is over.”