Takeaway: Great work necessitates mastering certain fundamentals, yet the result of all that work is something far greater.

Author note: As the time for another Table Lessons column approached, I decided to do what I have done occasionally over the years of writing this column, which is to randomly decide that the third client I see that day would be the session I would write about. The premise for this column is that every session has embedded lessons and opportunities for learning and growth for therapist and client alike. Such was the case here, as it went in a different direction than I could have imagined. 

My new client, let’s call her “Lydia,” presented with hip pain that only occurred while walking up an incline or going up stairs. She had seen both her doctor and her massage therapist for this condition. Not getting the results she hoped for, she came to see me. 

After speaking with her for a few minutes at the start of our session, I took her through some exploratory movements and assessments to zero in on what might be causing her discomfort. This approach must have been done in a way she was unaccustomed to, and she remarked how much she appreciated the attention to detail and investigative approach. When I found tissue restrictions that replicated her pain, she was quite thrilled with the direction of our session. After a brief time of quiet, Lydia broke the silence.  

“How long have you been doing massage therapy?” she asked. 

“More than 40 years,” I answered. It was her next question that surprised me. 

“For someone who has done this for so long, you seem to be really passionate about your work. Doesn’t it ever get boring?”

A little stunned, it took me a second to answer. 

“Actually, no,” I said. 

“I hope you’re not offended by the question,” she said. “It’s just unusual these days for people to stay in the same field for decades. I’m curious how you stay engaged because the work seems to have the potential to be repetitive.”

Even through the mask I was wearing, Lydia could tell I was smiling. I could tell my reaction surprised her. 

“What?” she asked. 

“Like so many other disciplines, the depth and richness are not often revealed by outside observation.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Most disciplines, from the outside, seldom reveal the intricacies that encompass the inside experience of the one doing it,” I said. “For instance, watching someone play golf is seldom exciting, but the experience of the golfer is rich as they are making calculations and decisions that we observers do not know exist. There are countless variables a golfer with considerable skill processes—wind, humidity, height of the grass, the angle of the sun, the slope of the greens, and more. We observers aren’t privy to any of that. 

“Music exemplifies this process beautifully. While we in the audience hear something beautiful, I would wager that the experience of the musician is far richer and deeper than we could ever imagine. One of my clients, a concert pianist now 90 years old, shared with me that he is finding something new and beautiful daily in a piece he has been practicing for many weeks. Even with many decades of experience, he still explores the intricacies of familiar pieces and discovers new ideas, and all that understanding is somehow communicated to us as audience members, even though we don’t fully understand the depth of the process behind it.”

“I honestly never thought about that,” she responded. “I am just aware of what I am experiencing; I never considered what might go into being able to do this work effectively. I guess it’s more than just a routine set of skills or techniques.”

“To be truly effective, it is,” I said. “Great work necessitates mastering certain fundamentals, and yet the result of all that work is something far greater. Going back to the music example, when my pianist friend plays, the power and the emotion of his playing transcends simply playing the correct notes. Decades of discipline and practice shine through in his playing. Years ago, I once sheepishly asked him what makes his playing so transformative and powerful. He told me that while other pianists practice playing big, difficult, and showy pieces, he spends hours striking the same key, trying to produce a different tone by varying his touch on the key. It’s that level of discipline and focus that makes him such an artist.”

“Do you work on skill-building exercises anymore, or at some point, are you past that?” she asked.

“I don’t think one is ever past that,” I said. “Skills can always be improved; understanding can always be deepened. Where I used to see individual pieces, I now see larger patterns. For every answer obtained, three new questions surface. It is an endless process of curiosity, discovery, and many remaining mysteries.”

“That must be satisfying,” she said. “Endlessly,” I replied.