A most contentious presidential election is less than 5 days away, the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy is gradually being exposed as far worse than anyone imagined, unrest grows in many countries around the globe and natural disasters have displaced millions. The unhealthy cold war in stepfamilies marches ever onward and the holiday season is upon us in the United States, with all it’s messaging of be-this, do-this.
I feel an overwhelming urge to take in a huge, giant, enormous breath of air to fill me up from top to bottom, left to right, stem to stern, front to back, to and fro, this and that, and wherever else I haven’t mentioned. I want the air inside me from the scalp of my head to the tips of my toes. Let there be no place within that isn’t nourished by that air and made better because of the oxygen.
Savor. Linger. Wait. Listen. Soften. Notice. Soften more.
I needed that.
While I know it’s not just me who’s feeling the effects of all these pressures and anxieties and increasing tensions, sometimes it seems that way. Thinking it’s just me is how I know I’m holding on and not seeing clearly. Thinking I’m alone in feeling pressured is the surest sign that I’m absorbing and storing it for that rainy day rather than letting it move through me, past me, and away from me.
Today, as I drove to teach my class, I stopped at an intersection to wait for a high school student to cross the street. The oncoming car also stopped. The teen was stepping off the curb into a very narrow street and a car sped around me to pass on the right, as if not seeing the teen.
I gasped, the teen hesitated, and time stalled for many surreal moments as the driver of the car realized why we were all stopped. The car came to rest inches from the teen and the teen crossed the street. It was many moments before we released our collective breath and went on our way.
This push-me-pull-me is everywhere right now. In the way we’re driving, in the lack of patience for one another to clear the way in front of us, in our zero tolerance for another’s point of view, in our expectations that everyone around us should see things as we see them, and our complete disdain when they don’t. We turn it on our stepkids, our spouses, and ourselves.
It’s as if we’ve lost our cushion, the moment-of-choice is gone. The choice is a moment in which we can make a different assessment and come to a conclusion that keeps us connected to another. The cushion-of-choice lets us give allowance to the driver who almost hit the kid because we realize it might have been us. If we have a cushion, that means we have something left inside, something akin to compassion, and we accept that another person is doing the best he/she can and that we all make mistakes.
We keep some cushion around us when we breathe. We can rebuild the cushion when we practice breathing regularly.
Right before I left to teach my class, I tweeted,
Is it ironic, that less than 30 minutes later, I needed to practice that for myself? Maybe not, when you consider that we humans have a need to rebalance, rejuvenate, and regroup every single day of our lives.
Maybe instead of growing a collective urge for things to be perfect, we can work together to improve balance, liveliness, and feeling connected.
Now, about that breath . . .
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