Lomi Lomi

I have always been a night owl. Even as a little kid, I could stay up until the wee hours of the morning. I figured out at an early age that I could fight bed time if I climbed up in my parents’ four-post, sat behind my mother, and quietly rubbed her back. That was usually enough for me to make it through an episode of Alias of LaFemme Nikita without hearing the final warning, “It’s late, Caroline. Bed. Now.” It turned into a nightly routine which lasted for years and years.

I can remember even further back to the time when I was still young enough to take a bath with my mother. Then too, I would sit behind her- my legs around her hips. I would cover her back with bubbles from the bar of Dove or Irish Spring and I would trace lines from freckle to freckle. She became a canvas for finger painting. Soapy works of art appeared between her shoulder blades and down her spine. I always thought her posterior was so beautiful, even later when it was scarred from surgery.

As a graduation requirement at West High, the seniors are asked to complete a “senior project.” For my project, I studied massage therapy under a mentor. He was a wonderfully nice man and licensed massage therapist. He showed me different techniques, what they were called, and the intended effect on the body and its health. One practice is called “Lomi Lomi.” People in spas and clinics know it as Hawaiian Temple Body Work. The goal is for the person on the table, receiving Lomi Lomi, to feel as though they are being gently rocked and guided by waves- almost as if they are floating in the ocean, surrounded by a supporting and peaceful force. You wash your hands over them, never breaking contact.

I finished my project in December, right about the time the doctors decided that they were out of options and she would not get any better. I found out in January and there was only one place I wanted to be: behind her. The front of her wasn’t really the same any more. An intrusive breathing tube was interrupting her gorgeous face. When you are turned to someone, society decides that we are supposed to have words to exchange. What I wanted to tell her could not be expressed in the parting of lips. I had not yet thought of how I would tell her goodbye when I found myself, for the millionth time, in her room with my hands against her skin.

Everyone seemed so unsure, uneasy. It was like everyone was watching an invisible door and waiting for someone to walk through with a plan. The last thing a person who is missing part of her lungs needs is breath-stealing anxiety. I wanted to be near her but I knew she needed calm. My hands could fake peacefulness better than my voice could. As I touched her, she quietly inquired, “is this something you learned through your project?” “Um, yeah, this is Lomi Lomi.” “It’s nice to have my own Lomi Lomi girl.” She didn’t call me “Caroline” after that- only “Lomi Lomi girl.” I didn’t mind. Lomi Lomi girl could say “I love you” in a way that Caroline never could.

Susan Glasgow Duncan Thompson died on the evening of February 5, 2008 in the same bed that I fought sleep in so many times. Sometimes that feels like a million years ago and sometime that feels like yesterday. Her life and death have an incredibly profound effect on my life daily. There are still plenty of times and moments where I’m sad or even mad that she is not here, that we’re not sharing today. But if my eyes do start to fall, they often land on my hands and I think of what we did share. It will never be fully enough, but it is substantial and it should not be forgotten or taken for granted. I got to be there. I got to say goodbye in my own way. I got to make her feel peace and comfort. That cannot be erased- like a tattoo on my soul.

The Hawaiians describe Lomi Lomi as part of Huna philosophy which focuses on passing all good things- generosity, respect, love- through to another person. Lomi Lomi is conducted with prayer and intention. One translation or interpretation is “loving hands.”