Day # 62: Guest Writer, Loren McGrail

#62

I woke up this morning and the first thing I saw on my facebook wall was this status from my good friend, Loren, who is living in Jerusalem as an interfaith chaplain.  She is in a war zone, she has been there for over two years and has signed up for more. Her family is in the States.  This writing is a poignant example of telling the story, naming the hurt and using some strategies to stay centered without disregarding the truth. Thank you, Loren for letting me post this.  I hope others feel its poignancy; for me it illustrated what I have been exploring for the past couple of weeks.   Oh yeah, and again, you are not alone.  Love you.

Breathing Through it

March 3, 2015 at 4:41am

Nothing like practicing mindfulness breathing like being on an oxygen machine. Yes, that's right. Yours truly was diagnosed with bronchial pneumonia yesterday. As soon as I walked into the clinic, where I have been before for various other things like falling literally on my face a few months back, the doctor said, "You have whooping cough. You are barking." His quick assessment brought back not stored memories because I don't really remember those three days but a story of almost losing little Loren to whooping cough.

The story goes like this. I was months old and got whooping cough. My parents built an oxygen tent in their bedroom which means they got a bunch of vaporizers with vicks and maybe a portable oxygen machine. Then my parents took turns carrying me around for three days until the coughing stopped. Part of the story includes the miracle that my father stopped drinking in order to stay awake and be sober enough to save my life. So I don't remember being saved but family legend is that I was and that my illness saved him too (briefly). Since then my lungs have been a vulnerable part of my body.

Back to yesterday. So I come into the clinic because I couldn't seem to either cough properly or remove the stuff effectively. I also had a fever with night sweats. So after hearing my bark the doctor called for blood work and an x-ray. So the blood work confirmed an infection and the x-ray confirmed that my bronchial passages were a wee bit blocked and something was beginning to show on my lungs. Walking pneumonia or bronchial pneumonia they called it which is why I was given not one but two antibiotics and some cortizone tablets to immediately open the passage ways and something else to thin the mucous. A fistful of drugs to be taken after meals that I didn't feel like making.

While waiting in the emergency room, the youngish other doctor comes and does something with my finger and determines I am below what I need for oxygen. He then hooks me up for 10 minutes of oxygen. As I sit there breathing in this wonderful stuff I become aware of a few things. Some are observations about how I breathe and some are about why I can't breathe, why I can't expel what is inside properly.

I observe that I thought I was breathing just fine just not very deeply.
I observe that I have become used to shallow breathing.  A question begins to form. Why?
I observe that there is no one holding me right now to keep me alive.
I observe that if i put my hands on my lung tips and call forth Reiki energy, God's loving energy, I feel held.
I observe that I love breathing in this rich steamy stuff and that I am feeling myself sink into it.
I observe it is easier for me to breathe in then to breathe out. Why?

Then I try to practice a form of Buddhist meditation. Why not?
I begin by breathing in all that is good and nourishing and life supporting.
But I observe (without judgement--well a wee bit) that I am having problems breathing out the negative, not so good stuff.

I observe that I am carrying a lot of pain---mine and others. They are co-mingled like vines.
I observe the obvious fact that in order to breathe in this delicious stuff I must make space, let go.
I must name it.

Unlike the African American man this summer who was strangled and called out to anyone who could hear, "I can't breathe," I have not been literally strangled but am nonetheless feeling suffocated. I realize have not been breathing fully. I have been swallowing just enough to live on. And that this "just enough" is not enough and I have forgotten how to let the Great Ruah breathe in and through me. I tear up and choke a tiny bit.

I realize like the Palestinians around me I am living in a city that is polluted with dirty air from corrupt politicians, paid do-gooders, and faith leaders who profess hate outright or who pretend to care but don't when there is a cost to their power or pocketbooks. I realize I have developed a nose for not only savory Zatar but sulpher fumes from skunk water.

I have developed a way of living on the surface because to go into the living tragedy of it is truly frightening.  I have not developed a thick skin but instead superficial breathing. It may or may not have served me once this survival strategy. Maybe that early trauma made me fearful to trust that the universe will provide.

As the minutes tick away, I relax into the rhythm of my breathing paying as much attention to the breathing in and the breathing out.
Here are some of the things i shared with myself:

I let go of the fear that I am here alone.
I allow God and whoever God sends to accompany me.

I expel the chauvinism and sexism I experience daily.
I breathe in scent of my own strength of mind and spirit.

I breathe out fear of wars ongoing, beginning and impending
I breathe in peace that is beyond on my understanding

I breathe out the pain of my friends shot at, denied access to their holy city, their right to make a living
I breathe in a future of dignity and freedom.
I breathe in a New Jerusalem.

At the end of my 10 minutes I was not healed but I had stopped coughing/barking and I could breathe; I could inhale all the way down.
And yes there is still stuff down there, scary stuff, but I am breathing through it.

if you wish to read more of Loren's writings, her blog link is on the right, "A Garment of Destiny" and that will lead you to other writings that she has published.