Upon entering the massage studio of Sara Rubin, I quickly slid into my standard approach of gletfs do an interview.h In this case, the focus of the interview being Sarafs artistic abilities as a Massage Therapist. Her studio, called Seattle Therapeutic Massage, is located within the eUnion Center for Healingf on 21st street and Union Avenue, in the Central District of Seattle, WA.

When I walked into the waiting room, Sara quietly approached. A slender woman with black piercing eyes and a gentle voice, it seemed as if every movement of Sarafs was with intention. After standard introductions, she placed a cup of green tea into my hand and led me up a narrow flight of stairs and into her massage studio. Upon entering, I was put at ease by the warm woods, soft colors and languid tapestries, which make up the studiofs walls. The strum of acoustic guitar hummed from the stereo, the southing sounds helping to put me a peace. She motioned for me to sit. Two stylish crimson and white chairs comfortably holding court in the corner of the room.

gGreat, g I thought, gFinally, I can start my interview.h

I was wrong. Before I could begin, she asked, gHow does your body feel?h I blinked and stuttered.

gUh, I thought I was supposed to ask the questions?h

This question of mine created an awkward moment in the conversation. Both of us obviously wanting to direct things. As I was in her space, I decided to relinquish my desire for conversational control by simply answering her question. gI feel pretty goodc Great, infact.h

gIs there anything going on in your body that is bothering you? Any pains?h she implored.
As a journalist, I prepare for each interview by researching my subjects (herefs lookinf at you, Google), which allows me to enter into the interview process with both a basic understanding of the subject and a list of icebreaker questions to get the stories rolling. Sarafs calm demeanor and basic professional approach was throwing a wrench into my system. Defiantly, I ignored her second question, retreating to my own list. However, before I could begin, she asked again, gIs anything in your body bothering you?h Her calm voice caused me to look up. Her unwavering eye contact was so I reassuring I couldnft help but launch into a ten minute monologue, describing almost every injury and ache experienced in my 24 years of living. My monologue paused for a few sentences upon a lower back injury I had been suffering from for the past two years. Sara asked more about this injury, eventually receiving a satisfactory amount of information. At which time she left the room, giving me ample time to get cozy on the massage table, clean sheets smelling fresh as I slid my body between them.

Minutes later, Sara entered the room, quietly beginning the massage. The acoustic guitar still played upon the stereo, the music curiously launched into a staccato rhythm, seeming to mirror the movement of her hands. Time began to pass. My mind wandered, my nose ran and my mouth drooledc forming a small pool of spit below the table. Rare Seattle sunlight flickered in the pool, catching my eye and shaking me back into consciousness. For whatever reason, I immediately remembered what I thought to be the true purpose of my visitc our interview. gUh, heyh I mumbled, my cheeks squished between the tablefs face rest. gI hear you wrote for a music magazine in New York City. Ifm certain our readers would love to hear about that.h I thought this was a perfect segue into learning more about her (it was question number twelve.)
She paused for a moment, her hands stopping upon my lower back, gYou are more than welcome to ask me questions, but I may not really hear them, because I am concentrating on listening to your body right now.h

gDamn,h I laughed.

And then, for the next hour, I was silent. It took me a few minutes to put it all together. You see. I was in Sarafs studio, her art studio. I was her canvas. Her tools were her hands, her muscles, and her keen and well-developed intuition of the human body. She was reading a language I could not understandc the subtle and intangible needs of my injured body.

Ever so often I would open my eyes and steal a glance at her face. It was relaxed, and motionless, her eyes vacant. I could feel that she was not looking anywhere. All her concentration was on my body beneath her hands.

Coincidently, Ifve had a career as a professional athlete.  During the course of which, Ifve received countless massages. Ifm proud to call myself gmassage-snob.h With that in mind, I was very refreshed by Sarafs style. gThoroughh was the initial word that came to mind. She was working with me as a whole person. Other massage practitioners I have experienced worked with me as individual parts. If I had a eknee problem,f theyfd only focus upon my knee. They didnft connect it with the rest of my body. They pieced out my body, whereas Sara connected my body together as a whole.

Afterwards, when her work was done and she was satisfied with her creation, she set down her figurative brush and allowed me to finally bombard her with questions. It took me a while to gain composure. My body was so damn relaxed I had trouble thinking clearly. Imagine Gumby trying to have a deep conversationc We talked for a few hours and exchanged many interesting stories. What stands out was her reply to what I thought my pivotal question, gDo you ever find it tiring to give so much of your energy to other peoplec doesnft it just wear you out?

She paused for a moment, delicately replying, gFor me, massage work is very healing. When I give someone a massage, I am listening to the person, as well as myself, and this exchange can also allow me to heal.h

Satisfied with her answer, we both sipped upon our cups of green tea, quietly enjoying the healing work of her art.