One of the first times I had bodywork done was in the early 90's. I don't remember if Jeannie was already married, or soon married a chiropractor, but I do remember her office was in downtown Salt Lake City. She was energetic and spoke in lighting-quick clips, but always seemed to listen and fully engage you in conversation. We clicked into an easy camaraderie, I liked her professional massages, and we got into a routine where I scheduled appointments with her every few weeks.
During one particular body work session she focused on my neck, shoulders, and back. My brain had slowed down to the point of flat lining and I knew I was in the space between sleeping and being awake. She was working on my right shoulder when the images in my mind shifted from an expanse of the red sand and blue waters of Lake Powell to a vaulted room of marble and woodwork. In the center of the room was a pedestal with a deep crimson glass bowl. I held the bowl and turned it over in my hands, feeling the cool smoothness along the callouses of palms and fingers. The shallow bowl's lip was darker than the rest.
The images changed when Jeannie moved to my lower back, but I remember thinking about the bowl. It had felt like I knew that bowl, that it was mine from someplace, from some time. Jeannie worked the whole right side of my back, and each time she went over my shoulder I had flashes of the bowl: high on a shelf in a cupboard; paired with its twin on a marble table; running my fingers over the lip of the bowl; holding the bowl up to the sun to see the deep crimsons. I let the images flow and enjoyed the rest of the massage, but the image was so strong that I even talked to Jeannie about it when we were done.
I've had a lot of bodywork through the years, but that was one of the few times where a physical response created such a vivid memory or dream scape.