Breathe In...Exhale Slowly

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could, some blunders and absurdities have crept in. Forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day." - Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

"No matter what looms ahead, if you can eat today, enjoy the sunlight today, mix good cheer with friends today, then enjoy it and bless God for it. Do not look back on happiness or dream of it in the future. You are only sure of today; do not let yourself be cheated of it." - Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1878)

A friend reminded me recently of something I don’t like about myself. I am impatient. Giving things a positive spin, I like to think of myself as eager. Truth is, however, that I am my father’s child—my impatience a gift from my Scots Irish Daddy, Russell, my namesake. It was probably his lack of patience that stymied my already puny aptitude for excelling at many things that came so naturally to him. A tinkerer, he was adept at a little of this and a little of that. My sisters and I all have something from his capable hands—a Felix the Cat drawing, chest for holding treasure, bookshelf, a table. I remember times that he attempted to engage my help in one of his projects. “Here, let me do that,” he would say in exasperation when I either didn’t catch on or I just wasn’t doing it to his satisfaction. So, no builder, electrician, or plumber am I. Gladly, I did develop his instincts at the stove, and I have taken his love for collecting treasure to an art form. And while I don’t recall ever feeling, as a child growing up, that Daddy and I were just enjoying one another’s company, in my gut I know that we had those times. Otherwise, I couldn’t hold his memory the way I do in my heart. So at times, in the heat of my eagerness—my champing at the bit—I smile, understanding that I am Daddy’s child.

For the record, I am impatient with my impatience. Mother used to say, “You’re just like your daddy. You want everything now.” I admit that I’m a lifelong devotee of immediate gratification. I go like “a house on fire,” according to Mother, a perception of me apparently so noted by those who know me well enough that they either remind me—not so much…only my oldest sister, Joan—or, I trust, they certainly note it to themselves and one another in my absence. I see a goal or a problem to be solved, and I go after it like, as the saying goes, there is no tomorrow. As my friend kindly pointed out to me the other night, making quick decisions can lead to regret, even in things as simple as—or maybe not—oh gee, a choice of material to drape a patio door. Keep in mind that the result must be artful, pleasing to the eye, aesthetically just. Name the task, buying screws at 40 cents each or comfortable sofa and chair for an otherwise empty living room, I’m on it, and I’m focused, and I ready to toss the dice. Going to the task, even if I’m doing so at someone else’s behest, I instinctively grab the reins. Sometimes, the results are disappointing.

Whatever role genes and modeled behavior has played in the nature that marks me in these senior years, I have come to learn that perhaps my impatience grows out of some lack of contentment. At least, some would suggest so. If I were content with just being on the journey, I wouldn’t have my attention so fixed on the destination. After all, what am I going to do when I get there, except perhaps say, “I’m here.” I don’t wolf down my food, especially if I’m eating with someone else. As a rule, I’m content to enjoy the company—that is, if the company merits the enjoyment. I can nurse my glass of wine with the best of them. Some people I know drink a beer or a glass of wine like it is water. A friend from long ago mastered the art of making the last four ounces of iced tea at a meal seem like nectar, to be sipped in some kind of delight that no thrice refilled glass of Lipton deserves. It was a form of control to delay our leaving the table, as he sensed my readiness, to be on! To where?

These days, in this place of conscious-raised humanity, I am reminded often of the importance of being present. You hear people talking about it. You see it on the walls, even displayed in the bathroom where I go for massage. “Live for Today,” the nicely framed piece rendered calligraphically advises. I wonder if a lot of people throw this term around without being truly keen on what it means exactly. The Internet serves up many websites devoted to Zen Buddhism and yoga, where one can read simple explanations of what it means and how it feels to be present.

Recently I went to a gathering that was supposed to be about journaling and being in the present. Unfortunately, the facilitator was a little caught up in the sound of her own voice, so much so that she didn’t really listen, unrelentingly eager to tell about her own journey, her own struggle to just be. Do as I say, not as I do. I guess what I am to learn from this modeled sense of urgency about oneself is to remember to take a breath, in fact several. Meditation guidelines routinely direct you to inhale and exhale slowly over a period of minutes, as you focus on the experience, letting go of past and future. Slowly, bend your neck to the right, now to the left, back and then forward. Aahh, I can feel the tightness in my neck and shoulders fading away. I wonder how long it takes to form this habit—wherever we are, to just stop, take a few deep breaths, and get over ourselves. My massage therapist tells me that she’s read new habits require 30 days to form.

I grew up in a family with a mother who clung to the past. Fear loomed large for her. In spite of her great love for family, her sense of loss, both proven and anticipated, claimed much of her energy. Oh, how I wish that I could have helped her be present in her final long struggle. Oh, that I had understood at the time what a difference it could have made for all of us. I can only wonder at the mix of eager, impatient father and anxious mother that nurtured us in our formative years? I don’t want to accept that we get too old to change. I hope that the old dog can learn new tricks. Any day of the week is a good day to let go of regret. Any time is a good time to show the door to fear.

For most of us, the house is not on fire, as we go about each day. For some, dealing with calamity is a profession. While this is not so for most of us, we indulge our restlessness—behind the wheel, in the grocery store line, at table, with those who serve us and those we claim to love. With our thoughts focused on where we think we need to be and what we think we need to be doing, we charge ahead, sometimes elbowing our way. Or wounds of the past lay claim to our present. Either way, we are robbed of precious time. It’s time to redo the tattoos on my forearms. For the next 30 days, that likely must be translated into some infinite number, on the left forearm, Pay Attention, and on the right forearm, Take a Deep Breath—and Let Go.

Breathe In…Exhale Slowly—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 4, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis