Pleurisy

Breathing - breath - has had a tough go recently.

As one who believes, fundamentally, that the breath of God breathes through me. And as one who believes, absolutely, that it is our breath that connects us to each other and to God, I’ve been having a hard time.

I had someone say, in a time of meditation last night, come home to your breath.

And it pissed me off.

Because the day before I had been in the ER with pain in my chest that got worse when I took a breath. Inflammation, it turns out.

Because when I have anxiety it lands squarely in my breathing. Like a weight I can’t relieve.

Because I have more and more friends who, day after day, have to use higher and higher levels of oxygen.

Because some of the 50 people sitting in folding chairs outside, around the entrance to the ER, waiting to be seen for COVID, suddenly knew what is meant by the very terrifying phrase: difficulty breathing.

Because another lifetime ago we marched to honor George Floyd’s breath, stolen. And then, like we always do, we sat to breathe in and out in church and allowed a corrupt system to go on strangling those without systemic power.

I sat to breathe, in and out, and let what is, remain. Much to my benefit. Much to another’s pain.

For a while now, I’ve had what I call awake-apnea. I don’t realize it, but I’m not deeply breathing while I’m sitting and listening and then, all of a sudden, I open my mouth and draw in a sharp breath. It’s as if I was swimming, very deep, and, when I broke the surface, I breathed for my life. Because I wasn’t quite sure when that surface would be broken. This very well could have happened to me while I was listening to you. I’ve just learned to gasp quietly.

Together, you and I, we are in a space where breath can no longer be taken for granted. Every time we sit in our living room on our mat or on Zoom in our dining room chair. Every time we pause before we walk through a door into the unknown. Every time we pray. Every single time. When we breathe in and breathe out. When we breathe in and breathe out. Every single time.

We have to remember that breath is the Spirit’s way of connecting us all.

We have to remember that breath is the first and the last. It will be the Alpha and Omega of our lives.

We have to remember that breath is sacred. So sacred it has turned into the ordinary. And that space is a space of radical depth so rare, if we look, we can find it every day.

What have we experienced together? The sharp intake of breath right before a sob. The holding of breath while a child gets a vaccine. And the breath of a child screaming at the unfairness of the needle’s trick. The painful exhale that comes with a scream. The deep breath of joy when something is achieved - something like a good homemade biscuit with jam or a good grade. Something like a bloom. The quickening of breath when a loved one returns. The breath of passion. The breath of longing. The breath of possibility.

Alpha and Omega.

Our story, when told honestly and reverently, is the story of breath.

And so, my apology to the friend who told me to come home to my breath - a comment meant to ground which spun me off into these words. It turns out, a homecoming was exactly what I needed.

To my breath - the constant in my life, the tangible kiss of the Spirit, my connector to all that is, I say thank you.

May I honor you when I sing.

May I honor you when I cry.

May I honor you when I am leading people in heart prayers.

May I honor you when anxiety presses on my chest.

May I honor you when I laugh out loud.

May I honor you when I see you mirrored in others.

And may I, above all, honor you when I work for the breath of others.

And, in so honoring, may I honor the Great Breath of Life.