Originally published at Ignatian Spirituality
There was a time when I saw an acupuncturist nearly every week. I remember one appointment in particular. My acupuncturist was carefully filling my belly with tiny needles.
“Can you feel this?” she asked.
I paused. “No,” I said slowly. “Should I?”
“Hmm…” She moved the needle ever-so-slightly. “How about now?”
“Still no.”
Another adjustment. “Now?”
“I mean, I guess?” A beat, then, “Should I?”
It was, after all, slightly disconcerting to have all these little pointy things stuck in my skin and be unable to feel them. Had my stomach gone numb? Was my gut just too big? What was wrong?
The acupuncturist finished her work and stepped back. “When I started receiving acupuncture,” she said, “I could barely feel any of the needles in my back. But now, all these years later, I feel every single one.” She saw my eyebrows jump in panic. “Not in a bad way,” she added quickly. “Just in a…” She paused thoughtfully.
“Part of what we’re doing here,” she said, choosing a new place to begin her thought, “is awakening the sense of touch. We want to feel. But for too long, too many of us live our lives numbing that sense.”
