Breathing fast and slow

At the corner of Cypress and Pine Streets in Santa Ana sits this tree with a hole in its trunk like Boo Radley's tree in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout and Jem, Atticus Finch's children of the novel, lived next door to Boo, making them all neighbors. Except, as happens in neighborhoods and communities and the world, Scout and Jem were warned to stay away from Boo who, they were told, was strange as in different as in not right in the head. He could not be tru sted with scissors.  In the end, of course, the children trust Boo with their lives. He saves them when they need it, and by saving the children, Boo makes the neighborhood whole again. Meaning safe. What was different is given permission to participate in what has always been the same. Isaiah House sits a few houses down Cypress from this tree, and for 20 years Dwight and Leia--two Catholics working in the spirit of Dorothy Day and her boss on the cross--have been feeding and clothing and

For many years, in the earliest days of my practice, I breathed and stretched in the dark alongside many beautiful and hard-working yogis at a studio where we had to sign our names on a piece of paper left at the door of our practice room, the rest of the studio not being open at that hour. Students, we were, of a different classroom, signing the attendance sheet, attesting to our presence. Bearing witness, silently, and in ink, to our commitment to ourselves, making our way into our place in the lineage and the world. A pattern began to emerge, I noted, with respect to this sheet where we were to write our names. Often, the lines were numbered, and on these occasions, the line for student number four was always left blank. From time to time, I took that open spot, accommodating the rules of order. But, in time, I came to leave it blank as well in honor of the ritual of the yogis who respected that particularly numbered line. In a little more time, it dawned on me t

Trini After class, I drop into conversation, and this dear woman who gathers up much more than our names, tells me I have found my truth. She is a mother, and older, so I listen. She hears my confession with such marvel and attention that I am not moved to tears at all, but to something more certain. Faith, then. Or trust. I have told her only that I know something in me broke--opened, it must have--and my practice shifted. The path behind me having been wiped clean, for mont hs I took tentative steps in a new direction. Even when it did not feel good, it felt right. She told me some people go to their graves never learning their truth. This one, she said to me, you trust. "Every creature has a religion," St. Thomas Aquinas wrote. "Every foot is a shrine where a secret candle burns." Many mornings, I left behind in my home so much that was holy in pursuit of what I believed was even more so. For a long while, this pursuit fed inward fires; tha

Dve, exhale When your child is born, this is what you watch. Her breath. It lives roundly and soundly in her belly. So content she is, the world of events waiting for her to happen have not yet interfered with the peaceful, abiding fullness of her belly breathing. All is calm. All is bright. The rest of our lives, we spend trying to get the breath back to our bellies. Contentment a memory an attentive parent once saw in us. When my father breathed his last breath and finally surrendered his all to this world that asked so much of him, I was not there to see it. I wonder. Is our will active at the very end? Does our breath leave us or do we let go, willingly, into that final ultimate exhale? Who takes the lead in the dance right then?

Ekam, inhale This is what we do first. We breathe. When we are born, our first breath sounds like a cry. Ekam, inhale, says the universe, and we come flopping out from a liquid home world into the air. Perhaps it's the lightness that startles. Or its vastness. I am trying to recall the Periodic Table. Which is lighter? Hydrogen or oxygen? Water or air? Difficult to separate. When I was snorkeling in Maui with my family for the first time, I understood, finally, that it was possible to live in a liquid realm. I understood the allure, in an instant, of freediving, wanting to get as close to survival in water as possible. No mechanism other than breath. Then, of course, there's all that silence. Which is it that makes that happen: hydrogen? oxygen? Ekam, inhale. At the age of 12, after having watched a demonstration of ashtanga yoga by Krishnamacharya, Pattabhi Jois left his family and presented himself to the yoga master for lessons, for a life of practice a