Outside acupuncture is this pretty rainbow building. I’m not sure if people live there, if it’s full of offices, or if it’s a school space of some kind. But seeing it after spending an hour on the table with needles in me does something further uplifting and solid for my mental state each week.
My acupuncturist treats emotions as well as physical disparities. She’s almost like a therapist that way, part of the toolkit of strategies I’ve found that keep me capable of carrying myself, my family and my community. She moves chi and addresses my feelings of grief, fear, anxiety; mapping my emotions across organs and drawing my body’s arguing behaviors closer together.
She re-centers me with needles in my face and on my head; in my hands and on my feet. I feel myself falling out of this world and into another, where I’m floating, gathering up strength and perspective. I lose myself on the table, float out of body, and only semi-hear the pianist on the track she turns for on for me when she dims the lights and departs. I feel woozy upon entering the world again 45 minutes later. I try hard not to jolt myself back to reality, wiggling my fingers and toes slowly, swallowing up deep breaths, summoning a guttural om. I tuck the napkin she left on my chest, dribbled with essential bergamot and orange, into my bra.
I carry the loss of my aunt Afi with me heavily. She still feels as alive as she was before her six-month battle with cancer. I see her dancing, never without bright lipstick. I believe grief is tricky and colors everything we do, and I don’t think it ever goes away. I think our capacity to carry grief shifts over time. She died in May but still her loss sits like a rock in my chest. Today I let myself lay still and pay homage to my aunt, involuntary tears streaming down my face. With the kids running around and the relentless pace of life, it’s the only time I’m alone. It feels so good.
Off the acupuncture table, there are ways I celebrate Afi and tell her stories and keep her alive in my every day movements, because she was someone full of gratitude. But sometimes the missing hurts so intensely, my breath feels stuck. I’m learning to do breathwork (covering a nostril, lengthening the inhale out of one nostril; letting it out that one nostril at equal measure etc).
That feels supportive.
I try, like Afi, to always see rainbows. I choose to see rainbows.
Wow, absolutely beautiful- I am left with chills. This line "I believe grief is tricky and colors everything we do" resonates so deeply. The way you write about your time in acupuncture (which I have been so curious to try, you have convinced me) and grieving your aunt is so well done. I also admire the skillful way you started and ended with rainbows.
Thank you for this glimpse into the acupuncture experience. It sounds like it helps integrate your physical, emotional, and spiritual well being. Your aunt Afi sounds like a really wonderful soul. Grief is a bitch, but it sounds like the needles and the colorful rainbow helps.
I saw the image of that joyful building and never thought it would be about acupuncture. I appreciated being taken in such a different direction. I know how much your aunt meant to you so I know that her loss will feel like a chasm for a long time. (My uncle died of cancer in 2017. His son and I are as close as siblings. Talking with him about his dad helps. And, of course, my loss isn’t as deep as his. But it’s still so hard.)
No, grief doesn’t go away, but at least for me, I’ve changed how I live with it, carry it with me, invite in memories. You have beautiful and important memories that are close to the surface and there for you to cherish and share. Moments of peace are also there for you to cherish and hold on to so that you’re also able to savor the time with the people who are present and loving your being with all of theirs!