From the time we were flooded by Harvey, downgraded from hurricane to tropical storm, but still deadly and destructive for Houston in 2017, we began making conscious choices about how to lessen the impact on our home should we flood again. The floors that were the least affected were tiled, so our contractor tiled the entire house. The office floor was raised, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were replaced by dry wall, regular windows, and raised electrical outlets (all permitted and inspected by the city of Houston!). The furniture we bought to replace our destroyed furnishings tends to have metal legs and be raised higher off the floor. There is no longer anything stored under our beds. All but two of the closets either have items raised off the floor or protected in plastic bins. Things on lower bookshelves are either binned or easy to move up.
This week, I tackled one of the remaining closets. It’s in the smaller guest room–the one that provided my writing sanctuary since April of 2020. What it contained included paper records, equipment, and items relating to a business I maintained from 1997 to around 2007. I always dislike saying I’m a licensed massage therapist, because it seems to invite ignorant remarks that are without any humor or value to someone who knows that massage is a healthcare profession. Licensing requires training, state testing, and yearly continuing education courses. This year, CE included a mandatory course in human trafficking. Sometimes a massage therapist is the first safe contact for someone being exploited in this way and can provide confidential listening or contact information for agencies that may help a victim.
Those jokes aren’t so funny in light of that, are they?
Though I stay active as a LMT, and I have practiced in the distant past, the main reason I became certified (in the old days), licensed (current day), is because in the state of Texas, to do the work I really wanted to do, including aromatherapy, hydrotherapy, or spa therapy, massage school was a required first step. My massage table and chair were destroyed in the flood. I only used the chair when I did corporate massages, and since I don’t massage anymore, I didn’t replace it. However, I replaced the massage table. I’d intended to begin accepting clients again for the particular modality I invented that includes aromatherapy, crystal and stone therapy, and Reiki (I’m certified in second degree). When I was laid off, I would finally have had the time to do that, but we were in a pandemic, so that clearly wasn’t going to happen.
While the day may come when I would do the work for friends, and while I’ll always renew my license, I doubt this will ever be a business venture for me again. With that in mind, I purged my records of about ten inches of paperwork and reorganized the closet to be more flood-proof.
It was bittersweet looking through my old client files (if you were a client, know your file will be professionally shredded while Tom watches that process). I was reminded of many wonderful and strange times, of people who’ve come and gone. One of the first people I ever did energy work on was a friend who died of AIDS. That led me to teachers and practitioners even before I went to massage school. I had hoped to work with others impacted by HIV/AIDS, and there were a few.
I also found the records of work I did on my mother, and an oil I’d blended for her that Lindsey massaged into her feet while Mother was in hospice only a few days before her death.
Those kinds of comfort through touch also show why the “jokes” aren’t funny.
The sun tea light candle burner above is one of the items I found among the boxes in the closet. I’ll probably share other things on here with maybe some stories that won’t violate anyone’s privacy and will protect their identity.
Those were years of many things learned and explored, and I’m glad for all of them.