Today I visited my osteopath - let's call him Francoise, for the sake of anonymity. My hips have been really hurting, in an old person 'ooh me hips' kinda way, but also a waking-up-at-3am in agony kinda way. They've been bothering me for some time - too much surfing or gardening and I'm in pain. Is this just what it means to get old? This is why I have 'my' osteopath, like one would say 'my' gardener, and so on. There's a sense of ownership when you find a good therapist - I am not going to any osteopath, but a very specific one. The guy is way more than a bone doctor. What I love about Francoise is connection.

He's not only good, he's fun to chat to. We talk about surfing, Marocco, moving to Tasmania, architecture, books, Namimbia, children, '90's punk rock, techno house parties, and so on. He's two years younger than me, and we figure we went to the same gigs in the '90s, just never met. He talks alot, and I talk alot. He puts his hands on me and palpitates. He's just listening for ages, and doing what appears to be nothing. Today, I chat ten to the dozen.

Before he moves his masked face close to me and says: stop! Breath! I do. He tells me off. That's not breathing, apparently, it's panting. I change my breath. He tells me I have to move past the dragon to get to the cave. My breath sticks. He tells me to move past the discomfort. I close my eyes and start to cry. I know exactly what he is talking about.

For the next half an hour, I don't speak. He doesn't speak, except initially, to tell me to imagine the shape that my breath makes inside my body. Breath is life. Breath is an asana. I go within. I see my ribs from the inside. I'm travelling through the blood stream, oxygenated by my concious breath. Occasionally he'll tell me to soften my sacroilliac, or let my ribs go. He's a yogi, I'm a yogi, so I get what he means, and my body obeys quickly.

I realise I haven't allowed myself such introspection and interoception - my body’s representation of sensations from within. It's an art we aren't taught. Everything is external, on the skin - we feel heat, we recoil. Noise, we dance, put our hands over our ears. Taste, want more. And so on. But we forget to listen to our body's wisdom on the inside - what our heartbeat is telling us, what our liver is doing at any given moment. I know this is really because I remember being in a cave in Europe once, in the dark, and I felt an egg release inside me. I was quiet and still enough to feel, and know, this occurance. It's possible. You just have to be quiet and listen.

I go into the dark, past the dragon, into the cave. I don't mind the dragon - the dragon is always there. I recognise it immediately and I'm not suprised Francoise has seen it too. I trust Francoise, because he's a kindred spirit and he understands yoga - the yoking of breath, body and spirit. He's holding space for me to be here, to go past the dragon. It's magical and beautiful and I melt onto the table.

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At the end, he gets me to stand on one leg, then the other, shows me exercises to do. It's about functional anatomy, after all. But I am so grateful for this man, that he can lead me into a place where I can connect to my tissues, and the wisdoms they hold within, and how my body will heal if I give it the time to listen, and to breath.

When I get home, the image above pops up in my socials feed. I almost cry again. This is exactly where I was, with my breath and my bones.

With Love,

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