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.