There’s a thing about breathing. We forget to do it. Or we
go through the motion of it so mechanically we’re startled the second our lungs
make a false start. Over the past few weeks, I’ve woken in bed with my chest
rattling, wondering how to enter into the next blessed sleepy moment. Don’t
waste time speculating what has me riddled with breathlessness. I’ll come right
out with it. Among other stressors, the grief over losing my dog is walloping
me. Yes, all the non-dog people of the world, now is the time to have a good
laugh.
But the dog lovers. Those who’ve also loved and lost (or
can’t imagine when that day comes). Well, I know you get it.
I had to teach myself to breathe again while restless in bed
the other night. Training air to enter in through my nostrils and pour out
through my mouth. And when I forced the inhaling and exhaling, concentrating
until the act of breathing grew more natural, I eventually fell asleep.
Why am I sharing this?
Because a few times over the course of the last few days
I’ve thought about the movie Sleepless in
Seattle when Tom Hanks is sitting in his Seattle home opening up to his son
about missing the boy’s mom, his deceased wife. Hanks talks about this
breathing thing.
Then, as I’m only pages from reaching the end of a great
book club read (The Husband’s Secret
by Liane Moriarty) earlier today, I hit upon this line. “She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. This
kept happening too. She had to remember to breathe.”
As convoluted as we
humans can be, there really are universal strings that will always tie us
together.
When we grieve and
experience loss there will be moments we forget to breathe.
Which brings me to one of my favorite openings of all time.
“From my first breath in this world, all I wanted was a good set of lungs and
the air to fill them with—given circumstances, you might presume for an
American baby of the twentieth century. Think about your own first gasp: a
shocking wind roweling so easily down your throat, and you still slipping
around in the doctor’s hands. How you yowled! Not a thing on your mind but
breakfast, and that was on the way.” ~
Peace Like a River
I’ve decided it’s in the trusting—the trusting that the next
breath will come that I’ll push through this. And in the slowing down and
feeling, no matter how painful the emotions may be.
With confidence and somewhat bashfully, I’ll admit I loved
our dog more than I have loved most people. It makes sense to me my breath
would stop on occasion, tripped up like ornery bike gears.
Stumbling upon lines in great books like those listed above
regarding conscious breathing and remembering Hanks talking to his kid, I’m
reassured I’m not alone in this. Sometimes we need to go back to the basics.
It’s here as we experience the raw art of breathing that we are able to humbly
identify how vulnerable we all are.
Here in the inhale and exhale of grief.
