Taking a Deeper Breath

Lately it seems like pretty much everyone is out talking walks. Even with the recent rain, it can feel so good to take a big breath and smell the spring air. But have you ever gone outside and taken a deep breath, only to realize that you'd been taking shallow breaths beforehand? That’s happened to me countless times, and I actually try to breathe deeply. Particularly in times of stress, we can find ourselves defaulting to chest breathing without even noticing it. These quick, shallow breaths are a common feature in today’s world; compared to earlier times, most of us are rushed, harried, and often sedentary. And we are probably even more prone to chest breathing at this trying time. Deep belly breathing not only helps to strengthen our respiratory muscles, but it can calm our racing minds. We need both a strong respiratory system and a calm mind to help us deal effectively with the world we live in now.                (Photo credit: Susan Keyser) Deep breathing is also a

“The coronavirus pandemic could well be the moment when the United States rediscovers its better, collective self.”  So said sociologist Dr. Eric Klinenberg in an op-ed piece published in the New York Times two weeks ago. A lot has happened since then. The situation is rapidly changing, and we can’t know what the future holds. But one thing we have continued to see is an outpouring of love for others in creative, concrete ways. There is daily evidence of goodness that we did not see before this crisis. Carl is on our “Next Door Neighborhood” website, and he told me a few days ago that there have been posts urging people to put teddy bears in their windows so that little children will have fun looking for them while on neighborhood walks. I hear that that’s a thing in other parts of the city, too. How sweet! And how simple. And what a kind way to care for all children. Sure enough, we saw a house on Saturday that had the entire living room window filled with

It’s Sunday. The Sabbath in many Christian traditions. Other faith traditions observe a different holy day. But whether you are a regular Sunday church-goer, you follow another faith, or you have no faith tradition at all, some “Sabbath” is a day for you. I’m thinking of my Jewish friends and family who light candles on Shabbat for keeping a day of rest and remembering freedom from oppression. Rest and freedom. Don’t we all need a regular practice of taking a holy pause? Of resting from our labors (including, as best we can, our worries) and remembering the ways in which we are free? Whether we have some sort of daily practice or we set aside a day each week, "keeping Sabbath" is how we regain strength and energy for the task of working for rest and freedom for all. You may have heard of Barbara Brown Taylor’s book, Leaving Church , which was featured in the New York Times, USA Today, and on NPR’s "Fresh Air." A retired Episcopal priest a

We end this week sheltering at home, keeping to ourselves as much as possible to try to flatten the curve. This strange time will surely teach us more, but it has already helped us see how interdependent we are, and how crucial it is for us to think beyond our own wants and needs. We will get through this. But love for others must be an essential part of that journey. I think about Emily Dickinson, who knew much about the kind of lives we are leading now. She, too, was caught in a devastating time when life was altered in every way: she was 31 when the Civil War began. And although she chose her seclusion, her solitary life is perhaps mirrored in the way we must live for now. She stayed apart, but she never lost her heart for humanity. At a particularly sorrowful time in her life, when the beloved son of the Amherst College president was killed in battle a year into the War Between the States, she wrote to her favorite cousins, “Let us love better, children, it’s most that’s left

Whatever else is happening in our world, it still is spring. And that’s a lovely time to be here. Yesterday I told you who I saw on my Wednesday walk. Today I’ll tell you  what  I saw: daffodils nodding next to bright early azaleas, plus hyacinths (grape and standard), crocuses, tulips, forsythia, camellias, wild currents, lungwort, white and purple heather, vinca, hellebores, rainbows of primroses, Spanish bluebells, star magnolias, pink magnolias, flowers I’ve forgotten, and flowering trees and bushes whose names I don’t know. The dandelions were making their showy entrance, and I found a few little clovers blooming next to a graveled area. Not to mention the faithful peonies rising up in red clumps and hydrangeas bursting out in new leaves. Obviously, Mother Nature didn’t get the message to stay at home.  But there was more. There were garden statues and gazing balls, some pink flamingoes, and a cheery banner left over from St. Patrick’s Day. As I rounded the corner at the bott

On Tuesday, despite my best intentions, I did not go for my walk. Too much cold rain for me! And the hail was the last straw. Yikes. But yesterday I just had to get out — we even had a bit of sunshine! — and here’s who I saw:  a 30-something woman with two sweet little girls playing on their driveway; a mail carrier getting something out of the back of her truck; our good friend Ellen and her three-year-old son, who came out onto their driveway to see us when I called to say that Carl and I were outside (thanks again, friends!); an older man with a cane, who was bringing out his yard debris can; a family — dad, mom, dog, and two darling children — out for a walk;  a couple bringing out their yard debris can; and a young family — mom, dad, and baby in stroller — out enjoying the mild weather. We do get regular walkers around here, but I haven't seen this many people on my route anytime lately. What a diff

Between self-quarantining after a trip to Vietnam and following widespread advice to avoid contact because of our age, Carl and I have been sheltering in place since March 2. We’re doing well. We have everything we need, we get out for walks, and we use Zoom and FaceTime to connect with family and friends and to attend our yoga class and church. But yesterday it dawned on me that I miss interacting with the wider world. It happened when I was writing a thank you note to the grocery delivery person who was on the way to our house. I realized that it felt good to be “talking with” this imminent arrival, even though we likely would not meet. It felt a little bit like I was sending off a note in a bottle. Just as with the classic note in a bottle, I didn’t know who would receive my message. But like the proverbial shipwreck survivor marooned on an island, I felt as if I were getting a message through to the outside world:  “We’re here! We exist.”  And I felt a kinship with the delivery

One of my most prized possessions is hanging on the wall by my desk as I type this. It’s a framed set of sunny yellow handprints made by my three-year-old son in November 1988. The preschool paint has faded, and you have to squint now to make out the title: “Thankful Hands.”  I looked at it today and thought about my own thankful hands. The hands I press together when I say “Namasté” to my yoga teacher at the end of class. The hands that wave and blow kisses to my little grandchildren now that we cannot touch each other. The hands that touch my husband, and lift a cup of fragrant tea to my mouth, and eagerly dig into the soft, damp earth to pull a few weeds when I return from my walks. Come to think of it, I have pretty thankful hands. And I’ll bet you do, too. I just never thought of hands that way before. Writer Annie Lamott reminds us that, “awful stuff happens and beautiful stuff happens, and it’s all part of the big picture.” We’ve gotten the memo about the awful stuff. But

Do you recognize the title of today’s e-mail? Did you ever see the movie “Napoleon Dynamite”?  It’s been 15 years since it came out, but I still laugh when bits of it come to mind, including the deeply romantic love song about technology: Wedding Song I’ve long since lost my power to make any of my family (including even patient Carl) watch it with me, but I still have a DVD here at home. If we’re kept inside for too long, I might just drag it back out! For now, like most people these days, Carl and I have been finding new ways to reach out and to find some normalcy as we shelter in place. Those who know me well know that yes, as a matter of fact, I DO expect to be the last person on earth using a flip phone. And no, I have never had a social media account other than e-mail. That won’t change. But as FaceTime has become a precious way to connect with family and friends, even I have come to embrace at least some of the gifts of technology.  One of my current favorites is the N

One of the places I find hope these days is in seeing and experiencing what feels like a real shift toward more kindness and compassion. I feel it in the younger people who clear a path for us when we’re out walking, in the grocery store “shopper” who received our order and stayed in touch with us by text as she filled it, and in the many, many e-mails I see offering help for those who may be at home alone. Then there are the uplifting stories we see in the news. One of the eventual blessings of this painful time may be that we find our way back to what matters most, to the common good rather than “what’s in it for me.” If this crisis has shown us nothing else, it has surely revealed how connected and interdependent we really are. Here is a prayer that was sent to me by Sister Barbara Kennedy, OSM, a dear friend and one of the founders of The Northwest Catholic Counseling Center, where I did clinical work before I retired. May it be so. W hen this is over, may we never agai