Breathing fast and slow

O n my way to practice this morning, while watching the nearly full moon suddenly emerge from the fog over the ocean like one of those immense battleships on display in any one of the films in the Star Wars franchise, there is more bad news. It is difficult to reconcile what comes across the airwaves from the radio in my car turned to low and the small miracle that has just surprised me outside my window. In another ocean, far from me, where the very moon I stare at in a brief state of wonder not so many hours ago hovered above this other body of water, forty-two people have died. Seventeen of the dead are children. All drowned in the Aegean Sea. A modern Greek tragedy. With too many Acts.  The Aegean Sea is described as an embayment of the Mediterranean Sea, which makes it sound navigable, safe, a sure harbor worth trusting with one's life. It sits between the mainlands of Greece and Turkey. Across this deep blue, peaceful, ancient sea approximately 850,000 Syrian refugees sai...

This is how most mornings begin. It is dark outside and very early, and I am already outside in the dark with the dog. It is too early even to admit to the time. I try not to think about it. Instead, I encourage my dog in soft, sharp whispers, to get to the business at hand. Hurry go, I repeat. It is a command I picked up in the puppy papers we were given when we first brought our young dog home almost four years ago. I convince myself that it is a useful command when our dog dispenses with matters quickly. When he is stubborn about getting the job done, I feel foolish. And annoyed. Hurry go, hurry go, hurry go. After so many times, you have to laugh at yourself and the dog and your situation. More often, and unfortunately, I do not because I begin to feel pressed for time, which seems the more laughable notion, really, because, as I have mentioned, it is very early. This is how most mornings begin before I leave for practice. They begin with this ritual with the dog. It is the...

"All rivers flow home," my teacher says, tilting back his head, gently closing his eyes, and with his hand resting ever so lightly at his solar plexus, I watch as the breath enters and exits, expansive in both measures. "Ah, yes," I say because I can see how this river comes home--straight to heart center--filling lungs and rib cage until it brushes up against the outside world. This, I think, is how we know we are in the world, our spirit coming and going endlessly in the river of the breath. In the context of the Mysore room, my teacher's words and gestures are not dramatic. It is early morning dark and silent; so, his instruction is entirely authentic. Like stage direction in a dark theater, it is intimate, urgent, vital. I am reminded of a radio interview I heard in November of the dancer and choreographer Twyla Tharp. At 74, Tharp sounded quite feisty, but sure of herself in a way that only age can grant. Naturally, I caught myself thinking throughout h...