Breathe

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Breathe

By Violet Mitchell-Enos

Ooh ooh child, things are going to get easier,

Ooh ooh Child things are going to get brighter.

Tears rolled down my face.

We had just finished our yoga session–savasana.  Sally, our yoga teacher, said the song just came to her; for me, it was the perfect 70’s song at the perfect time.  A song I had not heard in such a long time but immediately it was so familiar, and now I clung to each of those words wanting to believe them. I searched Sally’s eyes as she gazed through the Zoom lens. Could I glimpse this happier time to come? I saw her eyes so gentle and compassionate. She may not have known about my loss, but she was honoring my grief.

Yoga uses movements and breath with the intention of bringing harmony between mind and body. It was right for me during a time when I was not conscious of my body or mind–grief does that.

I’ve watched my seven-year old grandniece, Laila, teach breathing techniques to her younger brothers, Jace and Sammy. She told them it was meditation. Running so fast away from each other, or to each other, or running away to hide because of something they did that they were not supposed to do. Suddenly they are on the ground, crying with scraped knees, elbows, or hands.  Laila immediately swoops in, diving just like a hawk after food for her chicks.  She says comforting words as she murmurs, “Breathe like me.” She takes a breath in, slow long breath out, breath in, slow long breath out.  Soon, there is no crying, only calm and then they are turned over to me to clean a wound and put on a Pup Patrol bandage.  I’ve seen her pull the boys out to the porch and sit under the chimes with their legs crossed, eyes closed and forefingers touching thumbs as they breathe slowly and meditate.   I’m not sure if they even know what they are doing. But amazingly they sit quietly for a minute or two.

Could I do it, sit quietly and in peace for even a minute?  I recall the time we were climbing the hills, and Laila urged me to take picture of them meditating. They each sat on their own huge granite boulder with their colorful beanies atop their heads, legs crossed, eyes closed, forefinger and thumbs touching faces so relaxed as they breathed slowly in and out. It was a fall day, leaves drifting down from the trees, the air cool, a slight breeze stirring, and the sun shining brightly.  The cloudless sky was a bright turquoise blue that is only seen on macaws next to their bright yellow and iridescent green feathers. In the midst of creation, the children sit anchored on big granite stones–serene and at peace.

I held my breath waiting for him to take another.  This can’t be it, not now.  Frantic, I move to him, lie by him, wait to hear a faint breath, watch his chest to see it rise.  No more, no more breath, no more rising chest—I exhale and I don’t want to breathe again. Then I cry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop. 

Breathe, breathe–slow your breath down.  Breathe deep, exhale long.  The exhale is the most healing part.  Sally is reteaching me what I have forgotten and what the children  already know: breath is healing, calming, a bond between me and my world—harmony.

Ooh ooh child, things will get brighter . . .

The Dormant Seed

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Once upon a time and far away – in fact very far away in a small unremarkable market town in the center of England – lived a young girl who loved her books and stories.

She quickly learned her ABC’s and when her parents read bedtime stories she remembered every page, correcting them if they ever tried to skip one.  Her appetite for reading quickly grew – The Pilgrim’s Progress at seven – The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, science fiction, history – the library was her second home and so was planted the seed of a writer.

As a teenager she scribbled notes in a journal, wrote a few lines here and there and pursued English Literature and French at school – language and words were her fascination, her passion.  She studied Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, Shakespeare’s Hamlet—the list went on and on.  Then at sixteen she had to make a choice in subjects – hers would have been Science and English Literature of course, but her teachers knew better, apparently, and said, “Oh no you can’t mix and match. It has to be all science or all art.”  So science it was.

The seed lay dormant.

The next few years she spent writing science reports, answers to exam questions and dissertations, one of the highlights being the Reproductive Life Cycle of a Barnacle!  Then on to a corporate job–crafting statistical reports, training plans, committee reports, performance reviews, job descriptions–words that seemed so stale and flat.

The seed lay dormant.

The years went by, life went by, and her writing was limited to e-mails and the occasional letter.  Books were still her sanctuary, and friends often said “we love the stories you tell” or “you should write a book.”  The seed gave a little shake at the sounds of these words, but she often asked herself, “Who am I to write a book. I have no stories and no time.” The seed would bury itself a little deeper into the dark earth.

Still the seed lay dormant.

In nature, of course, it can often take a significant event such as a hard frost or even a fire to unlock a seed so that it can in fact sprout–this little seed had lain dormant for so long that it was questionable whether it was still viable after almost 50 years.

Then came the events that would shake and inspire the seed into action–cancer diagnosis, her father’s death, the pandemic.  On clearing out her father’s house, she found some of her stories, essays, and poems she loved and had shared.

Covid was the final wakeup call–socially isolated, in lockdown she joined communities on-line including the local cancer support group who held a weekly class called “Notes to Self.” The seed shook a little harder, especially when she showed up and wrote a few words. With great trepidation she ignored the voice in her head which said, “You are not a writer, No one will take any notice. They will laugh at you.” But the seed was taking hold.

A dear friend in the group provided water and even fertilizer for the seed. “Sandra Marinella is giving a talk through Healing Journeys. You should sign up! So she did.

The seed was so happy that a shoot appeared although it was not sure which way to go–up or down?

She listened to Sandra, purchased a copy of the book, and this time the seedling shook so violently she signed up for a writing class.  How did that happen?  Again, she showed up with trepidation, read the book, and finally understood that she could write. She had something to write about.  Sandra and the beautiful community she created provided fertile ground and a framework to write stories of overcoming trauma and loss, positive stories, heroic stories. It all made perfect sense.

The roots of the seedling grew stronger and finally the shoot pierced through the soil to the light—throwing out a bud or two when a piece was written and then started to bloom as she told her stories.  She became proud of the writer she was, proud of her stories, proud to tell them, and proud to be part of a community of budding seedlings seeing the beauty of the blossoms unfold.

 

– Pam Sheppard

April 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Mantra – You Can! You Can!

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It is shortly after 5 am on Saturday. I know this because the woodpecker who is entranced with the eaves near my bed has started to drill his song. When I pound on the wall, he thinks it is a game, and imitates my pattern. I give up and get up.

Saturday mornings. For years I would rise this early and gather my book bag that was stuffed with thirty or fifty essays from my high school seniors.  I would make the 12-minute drive south on the 101. When I arrived at the Wildflower Café, I would try to snag the booth right inside the door. Sometimes Lupita, a server-extraordinaire, would save that spot for me!  Sometimes Mae, the manager-extraordinaire, would bring me oatmeal before I ordered it. While marking up essays and stories in that booth, I climbed inside the hearts and souls of my students.

It was there I learned Tamiko wanted to be a doctor because her father had died of cancer. It was here that Nick confessed in his artful words that he knew deep inside that he was gay, and he could no longer run from his truth. It was here I edited Jason’s essay that would admit him to Yale and a life out of the poverty he had known. It was here I first discovered Ben’s painful story of finding his uncle in his garage after he shot himself. It was here in a journal that Alicia confided she wished to be a poet – and later she became one.

Perhaps this sounds crazy, but I rarely tired of grading student essays. Oh, sometimes it was a slog, but it was also a privilege to open the window into the minds of these young people who were on the cusp of a new beginning. They would struggle, they would strive, and often they would find their voice and ground themselves with their words. At the end of many essays, I would cheer a writer on by scribbling the words, “You can! You can!”

This Saturday morning as I brewed my black tea, I kept repeating those words, “You can. You can.” Unconsciously it had become a mantra that I often shared with students, and they would thank me. One day I remember shy Erica staying after class, to point at the poorly scrawled phrase at the bottom of her paper. When I read my scribble to her, she got tears in her eyes. “That is what I hoped it said. You can. You can!” Then she scurried toward the door to catch up with her friends, but she stopped and turned back to me, calling in voice that sounded like a symphony accompanied with Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, “Thank you. You made my day!” And she made my day.

But this Saturday there are no essays to grade. Today I hope to write a few sentences in a new book I am birthing. There is a moment of light-headedness. I have started this book before. I was going to coauthor a workbook with a like-minded physician until COVID hit. The pandemic littered my path, like your path, with many potholes that made it hard to navigate. I went from workbook back to a book, back to a compilation of stories. Writing is a messy business.

But this morning, I feel am filled with something new. Something deep-seated. And I am ready to try again. The metaphor that has wrapped its arms around my soul is storycatcher. I embrace stories because they are my teachers. They allow me to understand you as well as to understand me. While I went to battle with myself over sharing my personal stories as I wrote The Story I Need to Tell, I learned to do it.  Indeed, the process pommeled me with both beautiful and painful moments. Then I watched as the process changed me, and I grew.  Now as I share this work, hoping others can learn to find and hold the beauty in their life experience.

Writing a book is my way of searching for truth in my life and in this world. It is why I come to the page each day. Often it feels like I am navigating across the Antarctic in winter. Long silent stretches. Pain. Trudging across the tundra and feeling lost, but then something happens. A stray flower breaks through the ground and spring begins. The journey is long and hard, but worth the pain and growth that comes of it.

As I dip bites of granola into yogurt, I realize I have seen slivers of insight that dance in front of me in recent days. Taunting me. They know I must catch them, or they will slip by and out of my reach. They will fall into the synapses that dance in another mind or perhaps tumble, lost into the universe forever.  I want to capture these words. I want to run as fast as I can and dance and tumble and juggle and struggle until the whole of it comes to me. While it looms as a daunting struggle, I can do this, I tell myself. I can. I can.

And I smile for those words keep slipping out of me. They are indeed a long-time mantra for me. I guess we all need one. My students needed those words, and I understand that more fully now. For that reason alone, I will scribble those words across the top and bottom of this page. Also, I will write them in my heart.

I can I can!