Breathing fast and slow

One of my favorite scenes in the 1985 movie Out of Africa is a quiet moment shared between actress Meryl Streep, playing Danish writer Isak Dinesen who penned the memoir for which the movie is named, and Dinesen's head servant Farah, played by actor Malick Bowens. Dinesen, Farah and several servants from Dinesen's home and coffee plantation in Kenya have set out across the African plains to bring much needed supplies to Dinesen's husband Baron Bror von Blixen and British troops fighting in the East African campaign during World War 1. The journey for Dinesen and her servants is arduous. They travel on horse, by foot, and in wagons laden with food and gear that are pulled by oxen. On one particular evening, Dinesen and her servants are seen preparing for bed. The campsite is quiet and all are engaged in their evening rituals. Out of the evening calm, a pair of lions rush the oxen and take one down. Meryl Streep is shown in her tent, and upon hearing the uproar, she sprin...

A couple of months ago, one of my fellow yogis shared with me the following story about listening to me host my weekly live-streamed podcast Out on a Limb . Years ago, she told me, she had watched a documentary that had been narrated by the actor Brad Pitt. Because the audience does not see the actor throughout the film, but only hears his voice, my friend confessed that she felt as though she was hearing the voice of this highly celebrated actor for the first time. By listening only to his voice, she heard a rhythm, a cadence, a mesmerizing quality that she had never before experienced when seeing the actor speak his lines in a movie. That, she explained, was how she felt about hearing my voice these past nine months as the on air host of Out on a Limb . How could I not love this story? Aside from the fact that it was meant as a compliment—which, by the way, is how it was received—it revealed much about the storyteller, my yoga-practicing friend. The story told me something about ...

Today was the first official cross-country training day for my youngest who will be running this fall with the high school cross-country team. She dressed and ate and was out the door, water bottle in hand, just after 7:30 a.m. Not bad for a teenager who has been enjoying the later, longer mornings summer vacation provides. But she's not teenager enough to drive herself to practice and back again; so, I found myself grumbling as I headed out the door to retrieve her because I hadn't had the time to drink my morning coffee. My grumbling didn't last long. About a mile from where I was to pick up my daughter, I came to an abrupt stop. Traffic like this meant only one thing. An accident. And not a minor one. Up ahead, car after car was abandoning its place in traffic, executing sharp U-turns for a better way around the congestion. Now I was going to be late, I thought, but only very briefly because the thought that came next would challenge everything I took for granted as a ...

I am thinking of the peonies I bought at the market during the last days of spring--a couple of weeks ago now--their rich deep burgundy color defining for me, each time I passed them in their vase, something regal and majestic. But it wasn't simply the color that would force me to look at them again and again. It was the orchestrated way each bud chose to open. Swiftly at first, then a protracted unfolding, bending back on itself and opening so completely--like one's heart in urdhva dhanurasana (full wheel pose)-- that I was thoroughly convinced of the natural order of things. In the end, we become a thing of beauty. We have nothing left to do and nowhere we wish to hide. "Our being is silent," wrote the Trappist contemplative Thomas Merton. All the reason I need to feel a kinship with those flowers in the vase. Silent beings--every one of them--content in their stillness. Of course, Merton lived robustly before entering the monastery and finding his new freedom w...

"A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials."  --Seneca This morning, a man approached me at the gas station as I was getting back inside my car--a full tank ready to be used at my command. He asked me if I could spare a couple of dollars to help him pay for a tank of gas. I handed over a few bills, and he thanked me. He also told me how sorry and ashamed he was for having to ask. He said that part several times until I began to feel sorry and ashamed for not having to worry about having enough money for a tank of gas. An errand took me across the street where I observed this man and his wife taking turns with this uncomfortable task, partners as well in the consequent humiliation it triggered. Earlier this week, I attended the memorial service for a colleague's husband who died suddenly from cardiac arrest one day last week. Like that. After dinner and with no warning. He was 64. Moments ago, I had a phone call from a friend who ...

When I held the door open last week for a mother of two toddlers, both seated in a stroller on steroids, I was performing a very small act of kindness. I recognized that look of fatigue on the mother's face. I saw, too, that she was entirely capable of navigating her children through public spaces in the over-sized stroller; but, there I was, standing right next to the door she was aiming to exit. It was natural to offer this gesture of camaraderie--mothers-in-arms, you know. So, I held the door for her, and as she accepted the gesture and passed through--obviously appreciative of the few seconds of unencumbered bliss--she thanked me and added, "That was really very nice of you." It is a truth about the world. We often go unrecognized for our daily efforts. How could it be otherwise, right? One person's feat of courage or kindness or tireless perseverance can look to another as a simple matter of rising from one's bed at the appointed hour. I try not to seek rec...

"The earth is a church floor whereupon  In the middle of a glorious night  Walks a slave, weeping, tied to a rope behind a horse,  With a speechless rider  Taking him toward the unknown."                     -- Hafiz The earth is a church floor whereupon I have placed my mat. On that mat, I have learned to place my hands and my knees, my arms and my legs. Front body. Back body. They have been laid there, too. I have trained my forehead to come to rest on forearms, on shins, in the cradle I am told to practice making of my feet. Almost like a cup I could drink from in the desert if I had to. These bare soles, I have placed upon my mat, on the earth, where I have prayed in a church of slow motion through the minutes of many hours. I have learned to wait for those hours to teach my breath what it is I might do next. It whispers, "Here is another lesson for the heart...