“When I breathe in, I’ll breathe in peace.
When I breathe out, I’ll breathe out love.”
~ Sarah Dan Jones
I’ve been thinking a lot about breathing lately. Maybe it’s the images from the wildfires in California, or maybe it’s that I’ve spent a good chunk of the last week fighting, and finally succumbing to, a cold/sinus/thing that left me feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
Or maybe it’s more basic.
At the salon on November 3rd I climbed a flight of stairs for the first time since having ACL/ALL/Meniscus surgery on my left knee in July. I’ve always had this issue where I “forget” to breathe when climbing stairs or running – yes, I know it’s supposed to be an autonomic function – but for the first time – probably because I was so focused on whether FrankenKnee would function correctly – I wasn’t winded at the top. The distraction of focusing on my recovering joint meant that I wasn’t hyperaware of my breathing to the point where I stopped doing it.
The next day, I had my first private Tai Chi session. I’ve finally finished formal PT, but I have no stamina, and I’m still a bit off balance. I’m using a stationary recumbent bike and weights at home, but I need an external something to be accountable to, or I won’t continue.
The teacher I’ve chosen is a woman who is likely about fifteen years older than I am, slightly younger than my mother. She’s funny and warm, and very real. She’s also a physical therapist and is happy to modify the beginning exercises so we’re using chairs for some of my sessions.
Of course, any practice that involves energy – QiGong, Tai Chi, Yoga – involves breath work. Right now, breathing in through my nose while exercising is a conscious effort, but I know that eventually it won’t be.
As a singer, a lot of the breathing meditation that I was introduced to in that first class was reminiscent of what I learned in my first voice classes – breathing down into the diaphragm, so your belly expands with each inhalation, rather than your lungs – just like a lot of the Tai Chi moves feel similar to beginning ballet.
Movement, it seems, is pretty much movement, no matter how you dress it up.
(One of my other take-aways from my first class was that I seriously need to learn to slow down. But that’s an essay for another place, and another time.)
And breathing… breathing isn’t all the same. There’s meditative breathing, and contemplative sighing. There’s the sharp intake of breath when something surprises you (for good or ill) and the abrupt outflow of air when you express yourself with a hearty “Huh.” There’s the way we choke on breath when we experience sudden cold – that knife to the chest feeling – and the way overheated air makes us feel like there is no air to take in.
But whatever type, whatever kind, whatever alters it, for however long, it’s all breathing.
* * *
“Reading is like breathing in.
Writing is like breathing out.”
~ Pam Allyn
On Monday night, my husband I went to see LeVar Burton on tour with his podcast LeVar Burton Reads.
As he does in every studio-recorded episode, after he introduced the story, the author, and the accompanying live musician, Burton then said, “Take a deep breath… and begin.”
Of course, because this was a live show, he then interrupted himself to ask if those of us who are regular listeners take that breath with him when we’re alone at home, as we did in his presence, in the theater. And most of us admitted that we did.
Burton then went on to explain that he perceives that breath to be a sort of portal, and I must admit I’m enchanted by that image. To me, it’s always felt like a sort of mental reset button, but I guess the outcome is the same. It’s a change of tone, an alteration of mental place, and a step from the world of the mundane into the world of Story. As Burton also reminded us, the word to inhale is, in Latin, inspire – which, for anyone creative, means more than merely breathing.
After this brief divertissement, he repeated his ritual breath (and yes, we all did it, too) and began to read. The story, by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam, was a fascinating tale of lost relatives, missing children, and the way we treat memory and loss as a culture, couched in a blend of fantasy and science fiction.
After the reading, there was a question and answer period. As a fan of the podcast, I was aware that Burton typically has conversations with the authors who appear on his show, but I hadn’t expected an audience participation moment.
Breathing suddenly became much more of a focus for me, for two reasons.
First, there was the decision that I wanted to ask a question.
While I’ve been out and about since surgery – Comic Con a few weeks ago, and the afore-mentioned trip to the salon – this was my first time doing sustained walking (three blocks from the parking garage – we parked in the wrong one, but it ended up costing only $5 instead of $10, so, bonus!) and then down the ramped aisle to our seats in the sixth row. I had my walker, of course, but once I was seated, my husband had to bring it to the back of the theater where it could sit out of the way during the show. To ask a question I had to walk further down the ramp, without a mobility device, and wait in line. Okay, I was the second in my line, and the fourth overall, but it was a major achievement for me, and I was shaky from the effort. (Remember, I’ve also been ill.)
Second, my question led to a return question.
The Pam Allyn quote above has been circling my brain for a few weeks, and the combination of illness, finishing formal physical therapy and turning to Tai Chi, and LeVar Burton’s own words at the beginning of the show had me feeling like it was relevant.
So, I asked both him and Ms. Stufflebeam to comment on it, and he, countering, asked me if I was a reader or a writer.
I answered that I was a voracious reader, a writer, and a podcaster.
“If reading is breathing out,” he asked, “and writing is breathing in, what’s podcasting?”
I am sorry to admit, I went for the easy answer, the cheap laugh. Flippantly, I responded, “Self-indulgence.” There’s nothing wrong with that answer. For someone like me, whose show isn’t slick and professionally produced, who isn’t anyone with name recognition, it’s actually pretty true. And because this was a timed Q&A and there were people behind me, it was also the most effective way to end my turn.
But…
But as soon as I got back to my seat, I realized that there was a better answer I could have given: Respiration.
If to read is to draw in breath, and to write is to let it back out, then podcasting, which incorporates both, is the recurring act of respiration. It’s breathing.
And breathing is one of the fundamental necessities of life.
I’ve been thinking a lot about breathing lately, but it’s mostly been about the mechanics.
On Monday night, I was reminded that there’s another aspect to breathing, that we as creatives must embrace. We must take in everything that inspires us and put out into the world the fruits of that inspiration.
Inspiration.
Respiration.
Breathing.
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”
~ Arundhati Roy
About the author: Melissa A. Bartell
Melissa is a writer, voice actor, podcaster, itinerant musician, voracious reader, and collector of hats and rescue dogs. She is the author of The Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Holiday Tub. You can learn more about her on her blog, listen to her podcast, or connect with her on on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.
Thick as thieves we were. We’ve since broken up like the Taylor Swift and Kanye West fiasco of whatever year that was. All I know is that at the end of 2015 I had had enough of Anxiety and the bullshit it had been whispering in my ear. Anxiety and it’s devious friend Depression were at an all time high. Stalking me left and right. Telling me that things were going to implode if I didn’t follow the direction they had planned out for my life. If I didn’t listen to everything they were telling me was true, I’d be screwed. That my life, as I’d built it from that moment would cease to exist. In the end I would be found wanting and lonely, dragging my loved ones down with me. “Follow us,” they whispered, “we know the way,” they’d hiss. I remember sitting on the couch thinking, “how can this get any worse?”
As I walk with Faith and Hope, Love appears on the horizon. “We kept the best for last,” they say in unison. I look over at them smiling, almost giggling for Love is amazing! She prances over to where we are giving me the biggest hug I’ve ever received. Holding me at arms length she looks me up and down and nods her head approvingly. “You look GOOD! I knew you’d make it!” I look her in the eye and confess, “I wasn’t so sure there for awhile, but hey, I guess it was a thing.” She laughs at me knowing all too well that it definitely was a thing. We split off from the others as we walk to the top a hill. The grass seems greener here, the air fresher. She wants to show me something, and I fall in beside her.
Keva Bartnick is an artist, writer, and lightworker. Happily married mother of three; she’s been inspiring people to be their most courageous selves since 2015.
In despair at her daughter’s
But there is one thing about my mother’s sewing habit that has always intrigued me: buttons.
Christine Mason Miller is an author, artist, and explorer who has been inspiring others to create a meaningful life for more than twenty years. Her latest book, The Meandering River of Unfathomable Joy: Finding God and Gratitude in India, was just released. Learn more at www.christinemasonmiller.com.
Pat Phillips West lives in Olympia, WA. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, VoiceCatcher, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Gold Man Review and elsewhere.
I truly appreciate living in a place with four distinct seasons because along with the gifts of beauty autumn provides, it offers us a chance to reflect on the year gone by – on ALL the years that have accumulated like the piles of leaves under out feet, years that have blown in a vortex, whirling and swirling around our heads. Autumn gives us a brief moment to prepare ourselves for the work that lies ahead, the cold winter days that call for courage and perseverance and determination.
As Modern Creative Life goes on hiatus, I know I’ll need reminding that creative living is the way we bring art and life together in real time, everyday. The future of MY work entails staying connected with the creative side of my being and also with other people who inspire me. The future of my work means listening to the creative voices that speak hope and truth. The future of my work means diving into the deep waters of my own thoughts and dreams, distilling ideas that I can share with you, ideas that may resonate within you and make you feel less alone.
Becca Rowan lives in Northville, Michigan with her husband and their Shih Tzu puppy, Lacey Li. She is the author of