Another Breathing Lesson

On New Year’s Day, two tiny daffodil sprouts bravely poked through the soil in the pot on the deck. A month later there are a dozen, but still only two inches tall. The early flowers grow slowly in this climate this time of year. As the air warms they will grow faster, and be blooming before you know it; but life in the winter is not in a hurry.

I learned a new word this week－I heard it twice on the same day: Imbolc. It’s a Gaelic word that means “in the belly” and can refer to the birthing time of lambs. Imbolc was yesterday, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Life in the winter sits in wait in the belly－the belly of the earth, the belly of the creatures, my belly－until the time is right for birth and breath.

Yesterday was also Groundhog Day. That silly day when we look to a shy furry creature in Pennsylvania to tell us if there will be more of the same or if the time is right to erupt into spring. My friend Dori has embraced the day as her favorite holiday and made it personal. Is the time right to burst into whatever has been waiting quietly in the belly, or does it need more time to incubate in the dark? In honor of Phil not seeing his shadow, it is a spring-like day here. But though I look closely, I find very few signs that spring is ready to pick up the pace.

In the seven months of living with my mother, I have literally slowed my pace. She has taught me to match steps with her without impatience. Walking more slowly gives time to notice the temperature of the air, the smell of the evergreens, the clouds gliding across the pale sun, raindrops clinging to fir needles, the sound of the birds whispering in the bushes, the mountain glowing in the setting sun, the way the fog floats among the trees like visible breath.

It takes time to make the transition from unseeing speed to intentional awareness. I don’t get up and go to work these days－rushing from one thing on the list to the next, trying to get through the day’s tasks before quitting time when I can go home and try to breathe before a new day starts it all again, often continuing the list in my head even as I semi-sleep. I am more aware of my breath all the time now: the drawing in and the expansion of the breath in my belly...the movement of the air into my heart space...and the exhale into the world as I let go of that one, pause, then take another one in. I expect this is what happens to people when they retire: they have to relearn how to breath, and it doesn’t happen quickly. One of things rolling in my belly is how to return to work－which I must, eventually－and still remain in this conscious, unhurried way of living. Perhaps recognizing that desire is the first breath.

It’s been a busy week. One day a doctor’s appointment with my mom. Another day I need to accompany her on a couple of errands. Yet another day is my drawing class. Wow. Busy. My life has slowed down－I have a whole new definition of “busy.” But I don’t feel idle, just lucky to have the opportunity to concentrate on the breath.

Yogi Julie in Raleigh, in her 50s, after getting us into a pose that stretched my notion of what I could do, would tell us “two more breaths here.” I would think, “are you kidding me?” I breathed as slowly as I could, but her sense of time was slow. Trying to breathe fully, I still often took four breaths to her “two”; but by the time we came to her end, I was more comfortable with the discomfort. In my current class with the 20-something teacher, we are told “two more breaths,” and before I can finish one, she is on to the next thing. I contribute the difference to age, theirs not mine. Older people are more aware of time, and in less of a hurry to move from one breath to the next. I am glad to be here. I am glad to recognize the discomfort and take time to become comfortable with it. I am glad not to cram as much busyness as I can into each breath.

My friend Christina Baldwin, in her book The Seven Whispers, suggests three intentional breaths to begin each day: the first to let go, the second to be here, the third to ask now what? My living is somewhere between breath two and breath three. Moving from the letting go took time and it feels good to be here in the moment. I haven’t finished Christina’s book, but I am curious to see if she reveals what comes after the third breath. I suspect that moving into what’s next is not as easy as just asking the question and listening for the answer. But when we learn to breath slowly enough, we get comfortable with the discomfort. Maybe after the question is asked and the answer is revealed in its time, the next step will be as natural as one more deep stomach expanding breath. Meanwhile, being comfortable with uncertainty is today’s gift. There is time to think about what wants to be birthed and what needs to be buried, and what is still waiting for spring.


Note: I did birth a new blog this week about life with my mother. It’s called “Daughter on Duty: Walking with My Mother in the December of Her Life." I would love for you to join me there. http://daughteronduty.wordpress.com