Beneath the restless hum of Piccadilly,
a wide golden door opens.
Step inside—
a Zen sanctuary, quietly breathing.
Your hand glides along the spiral staircase,
each step drawing you deeper,
below the London underground,
into stillness.
A brief pause. A gentle change.
Then— marble walls, soft light, orchids suspended in space.
The air is scented, soothing.
By the pool, tranquility rests
like a mirror of heaven.
Behind tall glass doors, hidden away,
waits a pool of warm water—35 degrees,
a private, candlelit chamber,
four by four meters of darkness and glow.
We sit. We speak.We listen—deeply.
The first touch of warmth on skin.
A long exhale.
Lower with the breath,
rise with the inhale.
Hands meet.
A Japanese flute whispers the way inward.
The body releases—
vertical, meditative.
When ready, the head drops into open palms,
and you surrender—
falling back, floating.
Ears fill with water.
Inner sounds awaken—
fluids moving within and without,
flute and breath weaving together.
Bubbles rise.
Water carries the therapist’s hands—
waves beneath limbs, back, torso,
head, feet, hands.
The body is drawn like a sailing boat,
then gently pushed—
joints warmed, awakened.
Swaying side to side like seaweed,
up and down, skin stirred
like a snake’s soft tongue.
Dolphin spirals.
Arms become wings—
a butterfly in flight.
Stretching, massaging,
bone by bone,
muscle melting under tender touch.
Blindfolded.
Held.
Floating.
Freedom is felt.
Lightness. Flow.
A realisation surfaces, quiet and clear.
Aches and pains soften,
smile,
and slowly say goodbye.
Main – Image by Helena Eflerova
About the Author: Helena Eflerova
