Meditation on the breath is often taught as an anchor,
Something to hold on to,
A way to steady the mind when it wanders and it works.
But I wonder what else we're missing when we treat the breath as nothing more than a tool.
Because the breath is not just something we focus on,
It's something we are with.
Each breath is a life.
It appears from nowhere,
It gathers,
It peaks and then,
Without permission,
It fades away.
Over and over again,
Barely ever noticed.
If we let ourselves really see this,
The breath becomes a direct experience of impermanence,
Not as an idea but as something we can feel,
Something happening.
Here and now.
We all know intellectually that everything changes,
That nothing lasts,
But knowing something in thought is very different from knowing it in the body.
The breath teaches us without words.
No two breaths are ever the same,
Some move easily,
Some feel tight or shallow,
Some are long and full,
Some short and bumpy and uneven,
Just like our lives.
Some seasons flow,
Others are a struggle,
Some feel expansive,
Others constricted,
And yet,
Each of these seasons pass.
Sometimes,
When I sit quietly,
I notice how much of my suffering comes from forgetting this,
From believing that what I'm afraid of will last forever,
From bracing against pain that hasn't even arrived yet.
That may never,
That it's quite likely,
More likely than not,
Will never,
Ever,
Arrive.
And when it does,
It's so different to what we imagined,
We forget how strong we are in these moments.
So much of the fear we carry is borrowed from an imagined future.
We suffer in advance,
And then,
When the moment finally arrives,
If it arrives at all,
We often discover it was never as solid as we feared.
The breath shows us this again and again,
Whatever is happening now will soon be gone.
This doesn't make life meaningless,
It makes it tender.
It also sheds light on the other side of the coin.
On craving.
We chase moments of pleasure,
As if they could finally settle us.
But pleasure too is impermanent,
It arises,
It fades.
And when we try to cling to it,
We suffer.
The breath doesn't cling,
It doesn't resist,
It comes,
And it goes.
And in watching this simple rhythm,
Something in us begins to learn,
Not through force,
Not through repetition of ideas,
But through quiet familiarity.
Nothing needs to be chased,
And nothing needs to be avoided.
Everything passes.
If you like,
You can gently acknowledge this in your own way as you breathe,
Not as a mantra to convince yourself of anything,
Just as a reminder.
As you breathe in,
Try it now.
Maybe close your eyes.
As the breath comes in,
Say in your mind,
Arising.
Allowing the body to fill,
And as the breath leaves,
Passing away.
Arising.
Passing away.
Let the breath teach you at its own pace.
And notice how,
When we stop arguing with impermanence,
Something softens.
We don't disappear.
We become more present.
More alive.
More available to life as it actually is.
Fully alive.
And tomorrow,
We'll turn our attention slightly,
Instead of watching what passes.
We'll ask something very simple and very alive.
Tomorrow is about this question.
What's alive in you right now?
See you tomorrow.
