I have developed an addiction. I don’t know if this is a sign I am not getting out enough or what, exactly, but lately the most blissful moments in my life involve lying back with a dingus like this tucked into the hollow of my neck and spacing out.
On the carpet, on a stack of bedpillows, in my favorite reading chair. I wake up in bed with this thing involved in the sheets. The received explanation in bodywork circles has to do with traction on spinal connective tissues that integrate directly with the dura mater around the central nervous system. Why, exactly, this has an effect rivalling Valium no text has ever quite made clear to me.
My clients love it when I imitate this effect using the back of my fist instead of a ball, and I have IM’ed the method, late at night, to insomniac correspondents who could find at least one tennis ball in the gym bag or dog bed. (They tend to wake up on the rug at four in the morning, feeling stoned.)
I have never been able to get to this place meditating (for some reason, I’ve never been able to shake an idea of “meditation” that goes something like “be a good little do-bee, screw your face up and think about a candle flame AS HARD AS YOU CAN”); occasionally at the end of a long Yoga session, perhaps, or when well-stoked with Benadryl during allergy season, the feeling is close, but never quite the same. Just breathing is the most delightful thing in the world, and the racket in my head stops.
I think we need to get rid of all the prescriptions and counselors and issue everyone a ball.