Some days in massage therapy are routine—quiet music, soft lighting, a peaceful session, maybe a story or two shared. And then there are the days when the universe throws you a curveball wrapped in a celebrity, tied up with guitar strings, and delivered straight to your massage table. This story is one of those days. It Begins With a Phone Call… The spa scheduler called me, her voice bubbling the way it does when she has good gossip but isn’t allowed to say it outright. “I’ve got a musician coming in who specifically asked for a really good therapist. You’re up.” Well. That’ll perk up anyone’s morning. I asked who it was. She wouldn’t say—just that he played guitar. That could mean anyone from the kid down the street who learned three chords last week to someone whose poster I once pinned to my teenage bedroom wall. I grabbed the CD I wanted—a beautiful acoustic, new-age style album that made my heart feel warm and my nerves behave themselves. We still used CDs back then, which meant that timing our sessions required knowing the length of each track. (Our spa owner believed clocks were “disruptive to the spiritual atmosphere.” Never mind that they’re also helpful for knowing how long you’ve been in a room.) As I walked in that morning, CD in hand, I was blissfully unaware of who I was about to massage. Then I Saw His Name Now, I am not easily star-struck. I’ve massaged VIPs. I’ve worked with high-profile clients. I’ve seen humans in all forms of undress—you stop being intimidated real fast. But when the scheduler casually pointed to the next name on the roster… I felt the earth do one of those cartoon screeching-halt moments. Him? HE? On my table?! Let’s just say I’d heard his music. And let’s just say he wasn’t exactly unknown. And let’s also just say…I needed a minute. I forced myself into professional mode. My best “Oh, this is nothing out of the ordinary, I massage famous guitarists before breakfast all the time” face. Inside, of course, I was screaming like a teenager at a boy band concert.

Some people walk into your life looking like a medical chart come to life. Others walk in looking like a miracle waiting to happen, whether they know it or not. Sally was both. The Woman the Journals Loved Sally had scoliosis so advanced that she’d become something of a celebrity in medical circles. Not the fun kind of celebrity with red carpets and photo shoots—the kind where doctors put your x-rays on screens at conferences and say things like, “Now this is a case.” Her spine wasn’t just curved; it had practically taken up calligraphy. By the time I met her, she had been through more procedures, surgeries, and “experimental approaches” than any one body should be asked to endure in a lifetime. She’d been nearly doubled in half at one point—her spine bending her forward so dramatically she was practically folding into herself. In one surgery, a surgeon had over-extended her skin and muscle—pulled things too far, too hard, too fast, all in the name of “correction.” The result? Years of pain layered on top of everything else. The world had not been gentle with Sally. How She Found Me At the time, I was working out of a high-end fitness facility—the kind with perfectly coordinated branding and more mirrors than any one building really needs. My massage and bodywork room was tucked off to the side, like a little oasis off the main jungle of clanking weights and treadmill thunder. I’d made friends with several of the trainers because, well, I kept wandering out onto the fitness floor whenever I had downtime. Eventually, I started working out, too. Between sets and stretches, I’d chat with the trainers and learn about their clients, their injuries, their goals. One of those trainers was Alan—a thoughtful, observant guy with a solid background in movement and alignment. He’d come to see me a few times for bodywork, so he knew what I did and how I worked. When he looked at Sally—at the way she moved, stood, winced—he thought of me. “You really ought to go see her,” he told her. “Her work is… different. In a good way.”

Welcome. I’m really glad you’re here. This space was born out of years in the massage room—a place where people often say the truest, strangest, funniest, and most tender things of their lives without meaning to. When the body finally rests, something else often exhales too. Oil and Wine is a home for those moments. These are stories from the table—not told to expose anyone, but to honor what happens when people feel safe. Names are changed. Details are softened. What remains is the human truth underneath: grief, humor, confession, relief, surprise… and sometimes something quietly sacred. This is not a place for gossip or fixing.It’s a place for noticing. You’re welcome to read quietly.You’re welcome to comment or reflect.You’re welcome to simply sit with a story and let it land. If this space feels gentle, curious, and a little mysterious to you—you’re in the right place. Take a breath. Pull up a chair. We’ll begin slowly. — Cheryl