Good thoughts and a salt shaker: My first Reiki

I'm a cynic when it comes to less-tangible methods of "wellness."

Give me a sweat-inducing session on the rowing machine any day - I can feel that. I won't be able to lift my arms above my shoulders for two straight days, but at least I'll know I accomplished something.

So when I read that we five Questers would be attending Reiki sessions as part of the Quest for your Best program, I figured, if nothing else, it'd be a good time to recline back and write to-do lists in my head.

But there's just something about The Landing. You can't help but feel the good karma influence in both the people and the space. It's like someone painted the walls with Zen. The fact that I'm evening using the word "Zen" should speak volumes. The word - and it's implication - has always sounded...well, a little cuckoo.

If nothing else, though, I've committed myself to being open to the experience.

So there I lie yesterday morning, on a Reiki table in a small room with dimmed lights and ethereal music spilling from an iPod.

Reiki practitioner Valerie Davis said it might benefit me to think on an "intention" during the session. As in, focusing on what I hope to find or gain through this experience and life on the whole.

No problem. I started ruminating on feel-good stuffs. My thoughts weren't too precise at first - just general positive self talk.

I felt Valerie's hands pressing gently on the sides of my head. My face was flushed from the warm weather outside and I was grateful for the cool pressure. And I relaxed a little.

I started thinking about those warm weather days when I walk to work and everyone's mood seems lightened by the presence of sun.

I thought about how, "When you're smiling, the whole world smiles with you" and how I had tested that theory one day and even the guy who's always feeding the birds on Casco Street looked up from his pigeons and returned a "hello."

And none if it felt hokey - although it feels slightly so as I'm retelling it now.

Valerie placed her hands on my stomach and the thoughts kept rolling.

I found myself running on MacWorth Island (as I'm prone to do in the summer) only instead of the usual panting and strain, I ran with a dream-like ease. As soon I discovered I wasn't alone - there were people on the sides of the path watching - and applauding.

I paused my train of thought to make sure I was still awake. I marveled for a minute at how unexpectedly relaxed I felt - and how silly these visions were. Then I decided I didn't care that the were silly.

That is until the salt shaker appeared. I don't know why or from where - but there it was. A salt shaker in the middle of my Reiki experience. I swear, for a solid minute I thought Valerie was reading my thoughts and had put the salt shaker there as a joke. As though, when the session came to a close, she'd ask "Did you notice anything strange?" and I'd say, "Yes! A salt shaker!" and she'd nod and smile knowingly.

That didn't happen. What did happen was a solid hour of relaaaaaxing. I walked out of there in a happy fog. My saunter home felt like it was in slow motion.

My suggestion, even if you're a cynic (or especially if you're a cynic), try it once. But do it after work - that glowy, slow-motion feeling does not a functional office worker make.

Tipping the scales: Two weeks obese

Boy am I glad I didn't fake my own abduction and bolt north to yonder Canadian foothills this morning. Not that it isn't a swell idea. But if I'd spent the a.m. manufacturing a crime scene I would have missed out on some delightful news.

Fridays are weigh-in days - the scale being the single blemish on an otherwise fine day of the week. Last Friday I discovered I'd gained a half pound. No sweat. No celebration either.

This morning, I lost nearly that half pound.

So what I'm saying is, I'm exactly where I started two weeks ago.

Fine. I'm not going to cry about it. At least not until I get to work and can duck into the supply closet like a respectable person.

Instead Catherine set we four Questers (no Rachel today, she's in NY) up on a circuit. First stop: push ups with an elevated lower body. And bent knees. Bent knees make it easier.

There were squats and curls and medicine balls in there too - enough to fatigue seemingly every muscle in my body after the first pass. But let's go 'round again just for good measure.

Rough work, it was. But it was still sweet to watch folks walk by The Landing windows while we worked out - and yell things like, "I'm strengthening my quads and finding a connected, happy place wherein my mind is at peace and the world's negative energy is repelled. Oh, but you got a breakfast sandwich, so I guess we're even."

After class, Catherine decided to measure my body fat percentage once again (the first time, two weeks ago) had revealed I was 31.7% fat. One-third fat. Even more disconcerting, the percentage that classifies an individual as "obese" is 30%. In case you're not putting this together, I was dumbfounded to find myself in that category.

I get that no one ever asks me what gym I go to - or if I can help open a stuck lid on a jar of peanut butter. But obese? Pshaw! I don't shop at big lady stores and I fit quite comfortably into the coach seats on any given airplane.

But there it was.

For two weeks I lived as an obese person. For two weeks no one really believed me. That might be because of that whole "I'm the heir to the Newman's Own fortune" lie I was busted in a few months back. Or it could be because our understanding of "obese" is, well, bigger. There's nothing subtle about the word - or the implication.

That stint is over though, since Catherine measured me this morning. Today: 29.2%. Obese no mo'. I'll remember the time fondly, however. Look of the memoir next summer.

I suppose losing 2% body fat in 14 days ain't nuthin' to sneeze at. If I keep this up, I'll be batting off Canadians with a stick. And isn't that what we all really want? To hit Canadians with sticks?

It's on now. In a "taking it off" kind of way

It was cosmic, really, how this whole Quest thing came together.

I'd no sooner stood up determinedly at my office desk and declared "That's it. Sloth is out. I'm heading to the gym to renew my membership," when my colleague Karen told me to wait. "Don't renew it just yet. We're working on something with Head Games and The Landing - and you may be involved."

And by "involved" she meant really involved. As in Bodybugg, gyrokinesis and strangely named yoga involved. She meant heading to training sessions at very early hours.

But hell, I wasn't about to turn down ten weeks of personal training. Not that I thought I was that poorly off. I did run (read: jog slooowly) the Beach to Beacon 10K a mere eight months ago.

And I've been moderately active this winter, what with the occasional Hash House Harriers run, a Snowman Adventure Race (complete with costumes and East End sled) and many, many walks to the coffee shop (ahem - next door).

Even still, with those nearly forgotten accoutrements of summer looming - those arm amplifying tanks and those pastey-leg revealing shorts - I conceded that some toning might be in order.

Imagine my surprise then, when I stepped on the scale at The Landing for the first time in - well, long enough - and was greeted with a three-digit number I couldn't comprehend.

Those red digits flashed like the lights on an emergency vehicle. A tiny "alert! alert!" blinking there at the tips of my feet.

"I'm sorry," I said. "What?" I asked if the scale was displaying in ounces.

It wasn't.

I won't even get into the body fat percentage. Let it suffice to say that, while I accept that obesity is an issue in these parts, I never thought it'd be an issue in MY parts. But it is.

So there's that. What started as an unambitious tag-along project (following the four Quest for your Best program participants) has become an earnest crusade of my own.

A crusade that focuses on health and wellness, of course, but also on ensuring my back end isn't an exact replica of your average IKEA dining table.

We five Questers have been plugging along for a week and a half now. On Thursday a few of us took a gyrokinesis class (aka dancer's yoga). The stretch pictured above was one of the many movements I shocked my body with (bowl not included). My spine was altogether delighted to be extended in such a fashion, seeing as it spends most of its time bent over keyboards, books and sandwiches.

My body thanked me at weigh-in number one: A recorded weight loss of absolutely nothing. Even better, I gained half a pound. Sweet.

And the squats go on.

The body avenging: Somebody's not happy

It's true that no good deed goes unpunished.

And despite my good deeds of the week (strange activities with names like "hip funk abs" and "Gyrokinesis") my body has responded in a less-than-grateful nature.

In fact, my body is altogether peeved. Hostile even. My deltoids have been giving me the cold shoulder since Saturday and I'm fairly certain my quads tried to toss me down the stairs this morning.

There may also be some penance for the gluttonous days gone by. My body was content in its winter slumber - four months of cozy naps and comfort beer - and isn't taking kindly to the unexpected 6 am alarm. It says, "I'm sorry, you want me to what?"

But it's all in the name of good health - a little trial before the triumph.

And if you're transverse abdominus has to hurt - isn't it better to ache in the name of "six pack" rather than "street knifing."

What, me worry?

We've all heard of buyer's remorse.

That unexpected panic that descends just after you've signed on the dotted line.

That overwhelming sense of COMMITMENT - of wondering whether you can really handle what your signature said you could.

I had that moment last night - last night being the eve of Day One: Quest for your Best: Mind, Body & Spirit.

Myself and four other students were set to embark on a 10-week journey of wellness thanks to The Landing and Head Games in Portland. MaineToday.com and Switch magazine are sponsoring the endeavor, which explains how I found myself in the happy position of joining in.

It's a tremendous opportunity - that fact has not escaped me. But what kept me flipping back and forth in bed last night (and rereading the same paragraph of "Little Green Men" and staring blankly at a late-night episode of "Medical Mysteries") was the impending commitment.

It's not that I'm afraid of a little commitment now and then. It's more like a fear of failing to maintain said commitment. Buckling under the pressure. Crashing and burning. Like I just bought a new house and it suddenly occurred to me that I might get canned, not be able to pay the mortgage, get booted by the bank and end up selling painted bottle caps on the street just to afford a cup of joe at the Mobil station.

I could keep thinking those thoughts (and call them "preparedness" or "harsh reality" in effort to make them seem noble). But then, that'd be a pretty damn depressing way to approach it.

Instead, I think the five of us are entering this with a solid "can do" spirit marked by the smallest tinge of "oh my lord, what have I gotten myself into." I suspect that there's some "can't wait to bench press my Volkswagen" going around as well. Or maybe that's just me.