by Sheryl J. Miller

Created on: August 05, 2008

Recently, while questioning whether or not I should quit my sales job to focus on jewelry making and freelance, I took a trip, both physical and metaphysical. After an easy and somewhat scenic drive from Connecticut into Massachuesetts, I arrived at The Cape Codder Resort and Spa. I didn't get lost not even once during the entire 187 mile trek, so I had plenty of time to unpack before heading upstairs to the Beach Plum Spa. Now, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect from a "Chakra Rebalancing Massage," but, at the very least, I figured it would be interesting.

Upon checking in at the front desk, I was promptly ushered into the "Relaxation Room". This was really nothing more than a glorified waiting area, complete with comfy chairs, a leather chaise, smokeless candles, ice water with lemon, ice water with lime, coffee and about a dozen different kinds of herbal tea. I was out of my element and, therefore, had achieved vacation goal #1. I was officially an escapee from reality.

Soon, a massage therapist named Dottie appeared to escort me to "a truly spiritual experience". She was an older woman with long, gray hair and my initial impression of her was: "Yep, she's a hippie." In my mind, I could actually picture her wearing love beads and picking daisies a free spirit in an open field. The lines on her face spoke to me not of age, but of a life that had, thus far, been well-enjoyed.

In the softest of tones, she asked me to strip down to a level I was comfortable with, and then she left the room. I took off everything but my under garments, got onto the table and covered myself with a heated sheet. But, as I was lying there, waiting for Dottie to return, something occurred to me. A little voice in my head shouted, "You're on vacation, honey. Let it all hang out!" So, I proceeded to wriggle around under the sheet and fling the rest of my clothes across the room. Ooh, la-la.

Over the next 40 minutes or so, Dottie only exposed one arm or one leg at a time, massaging fingers and toes, flexing palms and heels. She then rubbed my back, neck, shoulders and even my head. I didn't particularly care for the feel, or the smell, of lavender massage oil in my hair, but it was all just part of the package leading up to the grand finale.

The physical part of my session was over. The time had come to tackle my mind and perhaps find some answers. Picture this, if you dare a brunette, flat on her back, buck naked under a white sheet, with seven little colored pyramids carefully

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