The Value of Breathing
I originally wrote this personal essay in January of 2017. It meant a lot for me to put this all to paper (or Word document, I suppose) and it came to mind again today. Reading through it two years later was a great reminder to me—of big, scary feelings that can resurface when you’re not expecting it, and of the power we have within ourselves (and with a little Divine nudge) to face those feelings head on. It’s really quite frightening for me to publish this, but I am the biggest believer in vulnerability. It has become much harder over the last year for me to let down my walls entirely, but I feel like there are words here that can be useful to someone else. So whoever you are, I hope that—whatever tears you’ve been crying or anxieties you have trapped inside the pit of your stomach—you learn to love and care for yourself as you would a child. I hope that you understand all of the tools available to you to overcome and be victorious. Every single time.
Here it is:
I have this breath and I hold it tight
And I keep it in my chest with all my might
I pray to God this breath will last
-Between Two Lungs, Florence + the Machine
I cannot fully explain it. It is a deep, unshakable tightness within my chest. Sometimes it bounces back and forth between my esophagus and the pit of my stomach, but it doesn’t ever let up. It is a constant pressure, and it’s uncontrollable. I should talk to someone about this anxiety. I will talk to someone about this. My breathing shallows and I beg as politely as possible for the Being taking care of me to just let it ease up. It doesn’t always work.
* * *
I started meditating in January of last year. It began as a whim, facilitated by an app on an iPhone, and a bored night with roommates. We opened up the app, closed our eyes, and tried not to peek as we listened to the almost too-soothing female voice telling us to direct our breath and relax our spines. I acknowledge the absurdity and the irony of using a phone to meditate— but it was a moment.
The practice grew; it began to be driven by some desire to seek new kinds of answers outside of the usual LDS maneuvers I had been trained in up until that point. I was concurrently in a World Religions class, and I found myself obsessing over the tenets of Hinduism and Buddhism and Jainism. I longed for that kind of oneness that the monks aimed for. I wanted to be able to detach myself from the mess of classes and responsibilities and the failed long-distance relationship in my wake. I wanted to be able to overcome my body, any and all physical desires, and reach a new plain of thinking and being. I wanted to really be.
* * *
About a month after the first iPhone app meditation, my roommate insisted on watching Eat, Pray, Love again. It was my second viewing, but it meant more to me than the first one, years ago. Oh yes, Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles. I learned about that. There seemed to be so many obstacles at the time, but probably the greatest one was the organ trapped inside my ribcage. Constantly strained, constantly aching and worried and for no good reason. I would say that I don’t know where the anxiety came from, that it appeared out of nowhere, but I will admit it was about a boy. Isn’t it always? He doesn’t like you. If he did, he would’ve told you by now. My obstacle was letting go of hope.
So we sat down on our slumpy couch and watched this movie. There is a point when Julia Roberts, playing the main heroine, goes to India to meditate and find herself. Such ethereal promise there, really. She meets a quirky man named Richard, from Texas. It’s in one of those climactic moments when he shares some urgent wisdom with her: “If you could clear out all of the space in your mind that you’re using to obsess over this guy and your failed [relationship], you’d have a vacuum with a doorway. And you know what the universe will do with that doorway? Rush in! God would rush in! Fill you with more love than you’ve ever dreamed of.”[1] So that was the secret.
In a moment of desperation, perhaps later that night, perhaps the next day, I sat cross-legged on our cold, ill-carpeted floor by myself. The clenching in my chest persisted, but I closed my eyes tightly and listened to the meditation voice through my headphones. She told me to sit comfortably and she guided my breath. Meditation is all about the breath. You cannot access yourself unless you are breathing, thinking only of the breath. She instructed me to assess any and all feelings, emotional and physical, without judgment. Simply acknowledge that they’re there. It was a unique moment of emptying myself. I dumped myself completely out on the floor and listened only to the whispers of my lungs.
The universe rushed in: Think about your feet. I have beautiful, strong feet that keep me moving forward. I cannot go backward; only forward. I am a beautiful being, and I choose to be filled with light. I have infinite divine potential, and I can do hard things.
This is you: alive and present.
* * *
“Whatever harm can come from one who
hates you, that is, from your enemies, an
undisciplined mind does greater harm.”
-The Dhammapada, 42
Life has become about learning to be mindful. If you can control your breath, you can do anything. Desires and appetites are not evil, but all things must come in the proper timing. Relinquish a little bit of control. Don’t conquer and beat down the carnal body, just reign in the wandering mind. Your mind controls your lungs.
* * *
“Pray always, that you may come off conqueror.”
-Doctrine & Covenants 10:5
The boy really didn’t like me after all. He told me himself. That night, I took a quiet moment alone, much like my first solo meditation session on that awful carpet. I emptied myself on the floor again. This time I was on my knees in prayer, and I could not control my breath. I plead that I could remain soft, that my heart wouldn’t turn to stone, that I could stay entirely open to what lay ahead. In a moment of pure grace, my roommate joined my side, holding my hands in hers and helped me to finish my plea to the Almighty. I was positive that He heard me.
* * *
I made it through the entire summer without a panic attack. One or two minor emotional breakdowns, maybe, but not the same kind of clenching that persisted before. I had reached a state of equilibrium with my new methodology and I conquered. Meditation was how I began my days—at least 4 days a week, followed by a study of the scriptures. I felt little bits of nirvana poking into my life, like light peering in small beams through the leaves in the trees as I strolled underneath. May I be happy. May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be at peace. I willed myself into stability. I went to the ocean often. I sat and listened, letting the salt kiss my face, and all I did was breathe. I feel You. Thank you, God, Divine Being.
* * *
The end of summer brought the end of my claims as a conqueror of self and of lungs. I try to remember that I’m okay. My chest is open. My body is resilient and has great power to heal itself. But the scariest moments are when anxiety is unhealable. The clenching comes back in the worst moments (a new boy and his un-feelings to fret about) and I wonder, where is my Ganesh? Where are You?
In the autumn, I sit among my congregation of young adults, who claim to be feeling the Spirit, but all I can feel is anger for this so-called Father figure somewhere in a celestial realm I cannot see. I cannot understand why the things that I want don’t work out. I sit squirming in my row, wishing I could scream or knock over a chair or punch a wall or write in an isolated haste. I barely make it through the final hymn. I already told God that I could not handle one more break. I don’t have that kind of resilience anymore. Wasn’t He listening? It is not my will to be shattered again, and He is not listening. Do You constantly have to bend me and cut me down and wring me out? Can’t I ever just thrive?
I’m skipping Your precious Sunday school. I’m sitting in a secluded spot and golden-yellow leaves are littering the ground. A breeze comes and the ones still attached to branches release their grip and let go and fall down to become one of the corpses. So much for nirvana. They are like a suicide cult, and I am all of them. Oh look, there’s me letting go. Oh look, there’s me spiraling through the air. Oh look, there’s me again, tens of me, giving up, not breathing.
* * *
November is my birthday and I spend my evening laying on my couch, listening to City and Colour demos and crying.
I sit up. My mind, my infinitely controllable mind, can step back and see my body figuratively writhing, and sigh at the illogical feelings. My body sits calmly on the couch, palm to sternum, a feeble attempt to dissolve the anxiety. My face cringes, and the self cannot breathe enough to even ponder meditating at a steady tempo. I’ve been taught that prayer helps, but it doesn’t have any immediate effects today and for a moment, all I desire is to simply stop existing, just briefly, just until the tightness is gone and oxygen can reach me again.
I can see myself acting crazy but I can’t stop it. I will forever be approaching birthdays.
* * *
“And after I had prayed, the winds did cease, and
the storm did cease, and there was a great calm.”
-1 Nephi 18:21
Tonight, I lie down in bed on my back. I play the app quietly on my phone, resting on my desk beside me. I force myself to rest my arms straight, directly by my sides, with fingertips touching the mattress, instead of up by the obstacle: my heart. My breath trembles still, just a little. It hasn’t gone away yet. The female voice, my own Richard from Texas, encourages me. Observe each inhale and each exhale. Breathe in calm, soothing energy; breathe out total relaxation. My breath itself has become a prayer. Every ounce of carbon dioxide exiting my nostrils calls His name and begs for relief, and every bit of oxygen entering my lungs is just a little bit of life, a little more nirvana inside me. Keep peeking through the leaves down to me. I need You.
* * *
“You can live in such a way that you are in the
Kingdom of God every moment. This is not just a wish,
and it is not a promise of some future happiness.
This is a reality.”
-Thich Nhat Hanh, You Are Here
A new semester, a fresh installment of life granted to me. I have gathered more distance and more time. After enrolling in a yoga class, I learn about the doctrine of the sun salutation, Surya Namaskara. I am reminded that the sun is the source of all life. The Son. I welcome it—I welcome Him—as anxiety departs from my chest entirely. I am trained in ujjayi breathing—in and out, only through the nose, loud, like the ocean. Like the rushing of great waters.[2] It is steady and powerful and victorious. If you can control your breath, you can do anything. I know that now.
The end of each yoga practice ends with legs crossed, palms placed together in a gentle caress in front of my face. My eyelids are fastened down gently, and my mind is empty of anything but the breath, awarded to me from the Divine Giver of Life. Thank You. My breath continues to flow as I bow deeply and deliberately—the traditional Namaste. The divine in me honors the divine in you. Worshipping is a form of adoration, so I adore and respect the person that I am now and the person I can become. I bow in reverence to the breathing beings around me in this class—little gods and goddesses in embryo[3], as they say. I can’t see or fully fathom all of it, but I can breathe. Thank You. Thank You. I love You.
Footnotes:
[1]Eat, Pray, Love. Dir. Ryan Murphy. Screenplay by Ryan Murphy and Jennifer Salt. By Elizabeth Gilbert. Perf. Julia Roberts, Javier Bardem, Richard Jenkins. CTMG, Inc., 2010. DVD.
[2] Doctrine and Covenants 110:3
[3] Romney, Marion G. "Man—A Child of God." LDS.org. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, 8 Apr. 1973. Web. 22 Jan. 2017. <https://www.lds.org/ensign/1973/07/man-a-child-of-god?lang=eng>.