FLEXING THE RECEIVING MUSCLE
Before venturing out, I used my unconventional technique to apply sunscreen to my back when there’s no one around to do it for me: I squirt the lotion on the back of my non-dominant left hand, allowing me to reach back and, albeit a bit awkwardly, pat the lotion on the one point on my body I can’t easily reach — the middle of my back between my shoulder blades. With my right elbow up and my left elbow down, I can then rub the lotion around enough with my fingers to prevent a splotchy sunburn on my back. I choose to not contribute to the environmental impact of convenient aerosol sunscreens, and I’m a sucker for a challenge, so I continue with my Houdiniesque tradition, which also happens to be a circuitous route to receiving.
I was once told in an astrology reading to be open to the point of receiving in my back. Since then, I’ve made it a regular practice to imagine the water through the shower head opening that point in myself, focusing on receiving the warm pressure from the water to build my receiving muscle in other aspects of my life. It was then that I first realized that the point of receiving is in the very place I can’t easily reach myself. Focused yoga poses and concerted effort improve and facilitate my reach, but it doesn’t come easily. Much like helping ourselves in other aspects of life, it can be a little awkward and uncomfortable, and it takes practice.
Only by the most intelligent design can the one place we can’t easily reach on our own bodies be the very place we instinctively console others in times of need — whether a pat on the back of an acquaintance or a lingering bear hug for a dear loved one, arms wrapped solidly around the other, our innate sense of compassion draws us to touch that place on another that they can’t touch themselves. In turn, the recipient is soothed by receiving contact in the one place they can’t easily reach on their own.
I never before knew that there’s actually a word for this spot on our bodies. It’s so rare that it can’t be found in most dictionaries; although it’s not misspelled, it’s underlined in a dotted red line as I type. As defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, acnestis (n.), is “the part of the back (or backbone) between the shoulder blades and the loins which an animal cannot reach to scratch.” How can a word for a place that provides such relief be so rare? Who doesn’t get lost in the timelessness of a good back scratch? We know where we want it, but we have to direct others to get there: “A little higher, little to the left, a little bit down, oh, right there.” Even our dog finds just the right spot under the table to scratch what she can’t otherwise reach.
Once we strengthen that receiving muscle, things can begin to offer themselves to us without our seeking. While I’m only 5’3” and don’t have very long legs, when wearing shoes, there aren’t many people who walk faster than I do. With my long brisk stride, I enjoy getting from one place to the next efficiently and maximizing my workout in the process. When I’m barefoot though, which is as often as possible in the season between the snow melting and falling, that all changes. As the sleepy brown ground begins to awaken to its vibrant green, I’m in it, on it, through it.
As soon as I take two steps, my body automatically shifts into a lower gear as the moist grass envelops my feet in silky velvet. I can’t not slow down. Instinctively, I inhale deeply then exhale with a smile, acknowledging the comfort the grass brings me that I hadn’t even been seeking. It’s not the discomfort of my bare feet on the ground that shifts my speed—quite the contrary. The grass feels so delicious that I’m dropped right into the present. Through it, I feel the Earth’s pulse. As I walk, I look down to discover that daisies have gathered between my toes, offering themselves to me before I even had a chance to see them ahead on my path. With the lift of each foot, they’re plucked from their homes, offering their bright joy to me. Is it any wonder we receive and send cut flowers in times of need? The harvesters of those flowers don’t know where their flowers are destined for or why, but these daisies know.
As I lie in the crushed shale on the pond’s edge, my back facing the sky, unexpected coolness washes over me as a single, passing cloud covers the sun. In an otherwise cloudless sky, it happens to drift exactly between us, its shadow providing the respite I didn’t know I needed from the heat I so coveted. In the shadow, I exhale: for turning of the season, for the appreciation of this moment.
These fleeting solitary experiences: feeling daisies between our toes or a cloud pass overhead, allow us to experience what solace feels like, assure us that the feeling can be recalled and returned to, even if there’s no one there to provide it for us. Whether in the form of a person, place, thing, idea, or action, in this way, solace appears unexpectedly. These seemingly mundane human experiences console us so we have an abundant source to draw upon when we need it most.
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