Just Breathe
Occasionally I’ll try to relax my body and quiet my brain in an attempt to grab a brief respite from the effects of my grief by methodically breathing in and out. This usually occurs at night when I’m lying in bed at night, the darkest part of the day for me, both literally and metaphorically.
I’ll close my eyes and concentrate on slowly taking in air, letting my lungs gradually fill while focusing on this basic act of respiration which allows me to shut out every other conscious thought.
I hold that breath for a second or so before then exhaling, slowly releasing the spent oxygen until my lungs empty, again totally concentrating on this process, just allowing myself to be.
I repeat this cycle three or four times, a sort of cleansing ritual for mind, body, and soul that gives me a small brief moment of peace.
Every so often, however, after exhaling I’ll just stop. I won’t immediately breath in, but rather just allow my lungs to remain empty. At this point my body won’t be fighting to regain oxygen because it hasn’t been deprived long enough.
I’ll lie there in total silence with no movement or sound. No gentle respiratory movements or calming sounds of exhalation. As the seconds pass the quiet peace brought about by this exercise will be broken, and my mind will naturally go to Adri.
I’ll imagine and think about her last breath, how this is how it was for her, that she exhaled air from her lungs and then never took another breath in, and at that moment, lying in the dark in bed at night, I want to do the same.
I’ll sit there in that state for longer than I would have imagined was possible. Quiet, desolate seconds that seem like hours pass while I think about how and why her life came to an end, but then I’ll snap out of it and breathe in again, finally giving in to the inevitable autonomic response as I inhale, taking in a breath that my daughter never did.
A somewhat dark little melodrama played out at night, the circle of life encapsulated and distilled into five minutes of attempted meditation, but on balance I think it does help.
Those seconds with empty lungs are extremely peaceful, if fleeting.
I’ll close my eyes and concentrate on slowly taking in air, letting my lungs gradually fill while focusing on this basic act of respiration which allows me to shut out every other conscious thought.
I hold that breath for a second or so before then exhaling, slowly releasing the spent oxygen until my lungs empty, again totally concentrating on this process, just allowing myself to be.
I repeat this cycle three or four times, a sort of cleansing ritual for mind, body, and soul that gives me a small brief moment of peace.
Every so often, however, after exhaling I’ll just stop. I won’t immediately breath in, but rather just allow my lungs to remain empty. At this point my body won’t be fighting to regain oxygen because it hasn’t been deprived long enough.
I’ll lie there in total silence with no movement or sound. No gentle respiratory movements or calming sounds of exhalation. As the seconds pass the quiet peace brought about by this exercise will be broken, and my mind will naturally go to Adri.
I’ll imagine and think about her last breath, how this is how it was for her, that she exhaled air from her lungs and then never took another breath in, and at that moment, lying in the dark in bed at night, I want to do the same.
I’ll sit there in that state for longer than I would have imagined was possible. Quiet, desolate seconds that seem like hours pass while I think about how and why her life came to an end, but then I’ll snap out of it and breathe in again, finally giving in to the inevitable autonomic response as I inhale, taking in a breath that my daughter never did.
A somewhat dark little melodrama played out at night, the circle of life encapsulated and distilled into five minutes of attempted meditation, but on balance I think it does help.
Those seconds with empty lungs are extremely peaceful, if fleeting.
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