The Itch Spot

By Brynne Betz

The little runt ran around in circles as if he were an over-wound preschool toy. He tried to sniff at little clumps of curious bits, but couldn’t stop long enough to take in a real breath. His skin was pink. His nose was brown. His body covered in dirt. He grunted as well as any piglet might do but wherever he went his wiggles stole the show.

“Would you like to hold him?” said the owner with a smile.
I laughed. “Easier to hold a wet bar of soap on a hang glider.”
“Hey, hey, hold on a minute there. No one ever taught you how to sleep a pig?”
“To sleep a pig . . . ?” I was trying not to let my eyebrows reach too high.

But he was already off to try to capture the little fellow.
I followed.

“Ok, now . . . watch me when I get him into my hands . . .” He grabbed him like you might a chicken—two hands, locked down, fighting pure muscle. And then, he moved his hands horizontally so the little pig lay on his side.

“You watchin’ now? I won’t be doing it twice . . . ”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m watching.”

And with an itch of the man’s finger to the crick in the little pig’s back leg, he went completely limp. Right there in his owner’s hand. He just lay there like a lump of dough.

“Is he dead? What’d you do to him? Can I touch him?”
He was warm. I saw his little belly breathing. But his legs and his head, they were still.
“I slept him, that’s all. In a few minutes he’ll be up and movin’ again. You just have to know where to touch ‘em is all. Easy peezy.”

With just a tickle, but in the perfect place, that hyper little pig had found his peace.

Feather-bird-.

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

Find that place that turns you to putty, that loosens your kinks, smooths your edges and makes you feel like a decadent pot of melted butter. First your mind—let it return to where your heart wants it to go. Where the spikes soften and the worries disappear like smoke. Where the hurdles shrink and the fears forget their hardened faces. Close your eyes. Invite yourself to return with the natural pull of your heart’s magnet, the one that begs you, always, back to your peaceful, contented Self.

And after your mind, then find a feather for that beautiful heart of yours. Tickle her just so . . . just so she really knows you are coming home. Let her slow down. Let her take a new breath. One with scented promises of kinder tomorrows, of gentler beginnings, of sunshine on your nose and a new lightness in your being. Feel her start to smile and maybe even giggle. Tell her she is free to fly deep and wide, and as far as the horizon dares to stretch along the sea.

Find your itch spot. Your happy sink hole. That place that makes you feel as if you are home. Go there. Be there. Dwell there. And watch what unfolds. For you see, every itch spot that I’ve ever met has only ever been pure magic to me.

_______________________________________________

Brynne Betz

Brynne Betz

Brynne Betz is a lover of the sea, of soft eyes, gentle hearts and the wonder in life that escapes even the best of us. She is trained as a transpersonal psychologist and would love to hear from you. Please visit her website at www.brynnebetz.com or send her an email at [email protected]

Get Citizensjournal.us Headlines free SUBSCRIPTION. Keep us publishing – DONATE

0 0 vote
Article Rating
0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments