Coming Back to Breathing

Each night, when I curl up on my side to go to sleep, I can feel my heart thub-thubbing. I worry about it at times, but my doctor assures me that it beats well and strong though occasionally, the thub pushes harder than the thubbing making the second thub feel hesitant. It's hard to explain, but when I feel the lopsided push my breath alters a bit and then, as if there is nothing else to think about in the world, I focus solely on my breathing.

I wish this was a meditation, but it's not. When I focus on my breathing it all feels wrong as if there's not enough air coming in or too much air going out and I find myself inhaling and exhaling without rhythm or ease. It's exhausting. At first, I try to turn it into an exercise, fully concentrating on each breath in and each breath out, but I can only maintain this for a short while never having mastered the art of meditation. To fall asleep I must concentrate on something else -- focus my attention on a detail of the day or a story I wish to tell and then, after awhile, I'm lost in my brain and not in my lungs.

It's not only at night that such obsession happens. During the day as I work around the house or sit at the computer, I realize how little I'm breathing, how my intake of breath is short and shallow and my release tight and staggered. My mind focuses again on breathing with more intention, regulating that which should be natural but feels superficial and stagnant.

The only time breathing feels right, the only time my body feels enriched by oxygen is when I'm walking or exercising.

Yesterday we went for a late afternoon walk with the dog. We call the walk "Up and Over" because we walk up the big hill to the east and back down it to home. A friend's parents are visiting from Illinois and they came for dessert the other night. When asked how they liked Seattle, they continuously commented on the steepness of the hills. "Walking is a challenge," said the father and yesterday, as we were climbing up the long hill I considered his perspective.

I have known nothing but hills in my lifetime and each hill requires strong breath. Even when my mind focuses on my breathing, I don't get trapped inside of it like I do at night when I'm trying to fall asleep. My breath has a life of its own with each push of my legs up the steep grade. Instead of obsessing about each exhale and inhale, I can watch them from a distance knowing my life depends on the depth and release of breath. It's a partnership of sorts and then, only then do I feel as if I'm meditating.

The same thing happens when I'm swimming though I understand why much better. Swimming, by nature, is rhythmic and each inhale and exhale is confined to an exact movement, a precise moment in a stroke. When I first practiced breathing both to the left and right while swimming, I tired much more quickly unfamiliar with the rhythm. Now, the breathing every third stroke feels natural and balanced, but it took time and patience to adjust. Somehow, I can't find that cadence while trying to fall asleep or during my day when working on a project.

I come back to breathing often -- in my thoughts, in my writing, in those moments when I need it most. We are about to travel to Mexico, for instance, and I dread the plane trip down and the plane trip back. The nervous passenger. I can breathe, but it takes meditative focus to keep my breathing steady, strong, and substantial. Such focus exhausts me. I can feel the tension rise in my neck and back and tie up my body in a gordian knot.

When we arrive in the village where we'll be staying, once we get settled and unpacked, the first thing I will do is take a walk -- no matter the time -- and find myself a hill. Then I'll hike up and down it as many times as it takes to find that rhythm of breath I so crave.

Perhaps then, after I've sweated a bit in the Mexican heat, I'll be able to sleep in between my breathing, resting on that bubble between full and empty.

The Dangers of Walking Dogs

Lately, I've been feeling my age. Well actually, maybe I've been feeling my past. My right foot hurts both in my heel where I have a serious case of tendinitis called, of all glorious names, Haglund's Deformity, and in my big toe where I've developed a bunion that flares from time to time.

My left leg hurts from a nagging case of sciatica fueled by a bulging disc in my back and a hip bone that is twisted and smooshed from a shorter left leg. In my right elbow, I've pulled something that makes it difficult to pick up anything heavy. I need to take some time today to do some serious stretching to relieve the tightness in my back, butt, and legs.

When I wake in the morning, I limp and shuffle to the bathroom and achingly squat onto the toilet. The walk down the stairs is assisted by the hand railing and I'm sure to take one step at a time.

I am only 50 years old though on days like this the "only" feels like a cruel joke. Yesterday, I was a couch potato unable to really feel motivated to do anything other than shop for groceries and make some bread.

I know all of this makes me sound cranky and whiny, but mostly my aches and pains make me feel reflective. As I moaned and groaned yesterday from the couch, worrying out loud about my condition, Ann consoled me by saying, "It's okay to relax. You work hard walking dogs all week long. You need to rest. Let yourself rest." (See why I love her?)

I know that many of my injuries are irritated by walking dogs. I walk about 3 hours a day and second only to my shoes, my body is taking a beating. But my injuries are leftovers from a lifetime of competitive sports and I can trace each kink and cringe to that volleyball season where I played with a sprained ankle, the track season when I raced with a pulled hamstring, the endless practice sessions where I jumped up and down stairs (with 25 lbs of weight on my back) to build strength in my legs, and the hours of diving after volleyballs, basketballs, baseballs, and god knows what else.

So now, when I walk -- just simply walk -- all those nagging injuries flare up in weird ways. My feet have taken the worst of it, the roots of my ability to run fast, jump high and far, and lift heavy objects. I wear orthodics in my shoes and my shoes must be incredibly supportive in order for me to buy them. And then they only last about 5 months if I'm lucky, wearing out like butter in the sun. When I wake in the morning, I must stretch my feet for a good 5 minutes before I can attempt walking and all the rest of it -- the sore butt, the sore back, even the elbow -- I know come from my crappy feet.

And now I'm attempting to make a living by walking dogs (and throwing the ball for them) during the day and standing at a retail job at night. In between it all, I sit at a computer and work on my writing and even that has detrimental effects on my aging body.

This was something I hadn't predicted when I left teaching and entered a world that focused on my feet, on my body. True, I've lost about 12 pounds and I know I'm in good cardiovascular shape, but oh how I hurt, which is something I never would have guessed would have be the outcome of such a career move.

All of this is to say, I'm not ready for a 9-hour shift today. I'm dreading it, in fact because I'm scheduled to work in the pack department, on a Sunday, during a sale. That means I will be lifting 30 pound loaded packs on to small women and tall men all day. I will squat down to fill the pack on the floor, hoist it up onto a back, and lift it back off again and again and again until it fits the customer in such a perfect way they're ready to fork over teh $250+ to purchase it. In between the bazillion customers who've come to the store to take advantage of the sale I'll rearrange packs hanging on the wall, clean up the pack display (people just rummage through and throw those packs hithter and thither), and restock the department with packs stored on high shelves in the warehouse.

All for about $90 for the day.

And tomorrow, it begins again though I am thankful that I only have two dogs to walk followed by a much shorter shift in the pack department (5 1/2 hours instead of 9).

Who knew such a career change could beat me up so?

Okay, I must go and stretch before donning my green working vest and hoisting packs onto the backs of eager hikers.

Between Pakistan and Medication

I've had to work the past two nights at my retail job. When people ask what I do, I tell them I hoist packs onto the backs of rich white people, but I learned last night that's not always the case.

The store is struggling, as are most, from the lack of business, but in the backpack department (where I've been working) we've been swamped. I'm not sure why. From my conversations with customers it appears that they way some people are dealing with the dramatic economic downturn is by leaving the country for places far and wide. I've helped people by a backpack who are traveling to the Sierra Nevadas, Thailand, Spain, Morocco, India, New Zealand, and for one couple, a backpacking trip to the mountains of Pakistan.

Pakistan? Like the mountains where Osama is said to be camping? Yikes.

On Sunday, a couple purchased $400 backpacks after both losing their jobs, receiving their severance bonuses, and deciding to travel in Mongolia and China until the end of summer. According to my supervisor, the pack department is carrying the store at this point, so I wasn't surprised at all when we were busy last night -- usually a quiet night in packs.

In four hours of work, I sold 4 backpacks, 2 travel packs (luggage-like packs) and a few suitcases. One man, a good 6 1/2 feet tall and equally wide looked like Santa Claus in denim. Every pocket in his pants, shirt, coat and current tattered backpack was stuffed and overflowing. It looked as if he were afflicted with unnatural bumps all over his body, but in fact they were wads of paper, rags, and plastic bags. We struck up a conversation about assumptions -- I'm not sure how we got there or why -- and he said, "You'll see a man picking up a quarter from the ground and you may assume he's unemployed, but he could just as easily be a brain surgeon. It's so hard to tell these days."

Amiable and gracious, he had questions about backpacks. He wanted a bigger backpack and settled on one twice the size of the one he was currently carrying. Though I tried not to assume, he gave the first impression of a homeless man carrying his every possession on his person. His hands were dirty, his fingernails long, and his gray tangled beard looked stained around his lips from too much coffee. He was grateful for my help and said as he left, "Thank you for all your assistance. You have been most kind." He bowed then bending his full head of long gray hair down to his waist. Doctor or vagrant? Hard to tell.

One young couple I helped pushed around a store shopping cart filled to the brim with all sorts of camping accessories, clothes, and shoes. Their last stop was in the pack department where they wanted to purchase two waterproof packs of substantial size.

I won't get into the options of such a request. Suffice it to say, waterproof and large equals expensive. Even the options in the clearance bin were $450 (yes, on clearance) so when they decided on two $500 packs, I roughly estimated their shopping cart to be rolling around $2000 worth of merchandise.

An hour after helping them, I went on break and as I was leaving the department I saw the man still wandering around the store pushing his pricey cart. His girlfriend was looking at a few last minute accessories and he was, rather frantically, walking up and down aisles perusing all the camping knick knacks.

While I didn't know this young man, I knew him. He was the student I always had in class who fidgeted -- tapping his pencil, bouncing his leg up and down, squirming in his seat, popping up constantly to sharpen a pencil or throw something into the garbage. Though he was now in his mid-20s, as a middle school student he would be the student who needed to visit the school secretary for his lunchtime medications and if he forgot, he'd be the annoying, out of control student teachers dreaded in their afternoon classes.

This was ADHD in adult form and as I watched him squirm up and down the aisles, pushing his cart with exuberance, never settling to look at any one product, I had to laugh when he slapped his forehead and shouted out (and yes, I mean shouted), "Oh no! I forgot to call the unemployment office!"

There is so much in that one exclamation. I can't even begin to dissect it. It carried the weight of today's economic concerns, the American need to consume, the lack of recent medications, the impulsive nature of a 20-something, and the apparent disconnect between the statement and the reality of his current situation. $2000 of merchandise and the need to call the unemployment office.

I work again tonight. I'm hoping it's slow though the way things have been going, I will most likely be hoisting packs onto more backs -- some rich, some unemployed, and some stradled between Pakistan and medication.

The Long Wednesday

I expected rain yesterday so I packed by dog walking backpack with enough rain gear and towels preparing for a sloppy, sloggy day, but the rain was a no-show. Thankfully. By the second walk of the day, I'd peeled off my layers, stuffed them into the already packed backpack, and walked around in the sun in a t-shirt. I even lamented the fact that I wasn't wearing shorts.

Today is starting off much like yesterday. I woke to rain and when I let Rubin out this morning to do his business, I watched the rain pattern the puddles on the deck. Yet, unlike yesterday, the forecast calls for afternoon clearing and sun. By then, of course, I'll be done with the dog walking portion of my day and busily working with a small group of 8th graders as they continue laying out their yearbook -- indoors.

And then I'll race home, take Rubin for one last spin, shower quickly and take off for a 5 hour shift at REI.

This is going to be one long day. I'm trying not to think about all the bits and pieces of this day. I'm trying not to think about how exhausted I'll be once I start work this evening. I'm trying not to imagine the hours this evening -- will it be busy at REI or dead like last week? I'm only trying to picture myself coming home, brushing and flossing my teeth, and crawling into bed when it's all over.

But that goes against my commitment to live in the now. It's so hard, this now thingy. I can do it while walking the dogs. They're certainly living in the moment and their silly antics make me very attentive to each minute I am with them. Quillette (pictured above) especially. I've decided she is very much a happy Eeyore. Perhaps an oxymoron, the happy Eeyore, but she has this way of looking at me that makes me laugh.

Rubin, too. Yesterday, I took them both for a walk through the wooded park and along a trail that often has muddy puddles. When we reached those puddles, he sniffed at one and then looked at me saying, "Oh god, I LOVE puddles and mud!" and off he went, sprinting and galluping and bouncing up and down the trail inviting Quillette to join him. Older and less likely to frolic, Quillette looked at me and then at him and threw back her head in a hilarious howl. Meanwhile, Rubin continued his romp possessed by the mud on the side of the trail. By the time he was done, his legs were black to the knees, his nose covered in mud, and his tongue slung in an exhausted pant.

The blur of Rubin being frisky!

I thought of nothing else during those moments. I just watched him play and listened to Quillette howl at him. This is what I love the most about being a dog walker. There are no big worries. No thinking ahead or reflecting back about the job I've done. I wouldn't mind a long Wednesday if it was solely focused on walking dogs, but unfortunately it isn't. There's this funny thing about making a living and since making a living involves cobbling together a weird array of jobs, I am stuck with today as it is -- a long Wednesday

Pouting Rain

We'd planned on skiing today, but woke to heavy rain. The mountain pass report is no better and now we must regroup and figure out something else. I am disappointed. Not much skiing this year and I was hoping for one last ski before the spring weather.

Our weather has been a mix of rain, snow, sun, and wind this week. As a dog walker, I live in it all. Last week I went through three sets of rain gear, rotating through it by hanging the wet stuff in the downstairs bathroom, donning the dry stuff, and then hanging the second set of wet stuff alongside the first and wearing a third set I dug out of a plastic tub in the basement. The next day, sun and I walked most of the day without a coat and at one point in a t-shirt. That day was followed by snow and I pulled out long underwear and a warm hat. There was no dressing against the wind, but I walked through that as well.

I shouldn't have been surprised by rain this morning. I read all the forecasts, but I convinced myself that rain down here meant snow up in the mountains. I was wrong. The snow level is at 6000 feet and we ski at 3000. That would mean skiing in the rain. Not fun. Even the traffic cams mounted at the pass make the day look uninviting.

So now I must figure out what to do instead.

What an interesting proposition. As a teacher, I never was without something to do -- grade papers, plan lessons, contact parents -- though I did everything I could to put it off until the last minute (usually Sunday night when I tantrumed my way through it all). Just because I'm not teaching doesn't mean there aren't things I can do. There are bills to pay, there's a piece I'm working on that needs yet another rewrite, there are papers on the desk that need to be filed and there are dishes to do and laundry to fold. And I must get all my tax papers together. How's that for exciting?

None of it feels pressing and perhaps that is my disappointment niggling me into a kind of pout today. I really wanted to ski, but now I must turn to other choices none of which seem as appealing.