In Praise of Air
In Praise of Air: 15 May 2022
(All quotations from In Praise of Air by John O’Donohue.)
“Let us bless the air
Benefactor of breath,
Keeper of the fragile bridge
We breathe across.”
There’s very little sky left to be seen from the screen porch. I’ve been marking the progress of the leafing out: my view ripening from blue to green. In Autumn the reverse: the falling leaves reveal more and more sky. But by this time of Spring the porch feels like an airy treehouse. The air this morning is sweet, rain-washed, saturated with bird voices. I try to savor the in-breaths.
“Air along whose unseen path
Presence builds its quiet procession;
Sometimes in waves of sound,
Voices that can persuade
Every door of the heart;
Often in tides of music
That absolve the cut of time.”
I’m thinking about breathing a lot these days. I allowed myself an entire deep breath day at the end of April in preparation for May. Or, as one friend calls it: Maycember.
As a parent of school-age children, I think of May like swimming the English Channel. Possible, unpredictable, intense, and celebratory. The end of everything is celebrated--every club/event/grade. It's exciting, and exhausting. And then it's summer. So-- deep breath, dive in, start swimming. Or this year, start running.
In early March Emma asked if we could run in the mornings before school. We were talking about wanting to work off our pandemic inches. Deep breath. I love slow mornings. I don’t love running. For two long seconds I stared into her beautiful, earnest blue eyes while my mind rabbited among all the reasons to say no before I landed on the only acceptable response: Absolutely. Want to start tomorrow?
Stars in my airy crown.
There have been mornings, especially early on, when one or both of us could not catch our breath. Maybe the pollen was especially thick, maybe a sleepless night, maybe a steep hill. A few times I’ve had to stop, bend over, put hands on knees, intentionally not panic. Breathing is how I calm down: it’s terrifying when breathing is the difficulty. Memories flare: Mama struggling to breathe even with an oxygen tank, the fluid in her lungs crowding out the space for precious air; terrified three-year-old Jack, whose croupy seal-barking would jolt me from sleep and a couple of times, propel us to the hospital. What wouldn’t you give for your loved one to breathe?
“Air: vast neighborhood
Of the invisible, where thought lives,
Entering, to arise in us as our own,
Enabling us to put faces on things
That would otherwise stay strange
And leave us homeless here.”
We’re running intervals, which means that on Emma’s chatty days I sometimes have enough breath to respond during the walking parts.
One morning, as I was relishing the slight lemony scent of the earliest Magnolia blossoms, she mused how it makes sense that Shakespeare used the word ‘tis because it actually does sound like it is. (Lest you think my child a prodigy, know that the third grade Challenge curriculum is based on Shakespeare.)
I was immediately transported to a long-ago church pew. I was about six or seven years old. I think my grandparents had come to visit us in Charlotte, and we were in the magnificent old sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church. Motherdear was sitting next to me on that dark wooden pew with those two-inch-plush, church-red seat cushions. We stood to say the Lord’s Prayer, and I remember listening to her lovely, lilting drawl reverently reciting the prayer. We got to the part where I said, “…on Earth as it is in Heaven” and I distinctly heard her say, “on Earth as ‘tis in Heaven.” How charming! I briefly considered adopting her diction, but even as a child I knew I couldn’t pull it off.
Emma liked the story, and we practiced saying the phrase that way a few times before the interval timer signaled our next run. While running I thought: what an amazing, un-remembered gift, to recall my grandmother’s voice in my mind’s ear. More—I realized I can also hear my mother saying the Lord’s Prayer. And my father. I can hear my Uncle Mike and my Aunt Nancy. I can hear Mark, and now, also, our children. It’s one of my favorite parts of any worship service, hearing voices both distinct and in unison, praying that prayer, knowing that other voices are reciting it all around the world. This is the communion of the saints. The Ruach YHWH—breath of God—flowing to and through me, across time, across space. What a legacy.
“Air, home of memory where
Our vanished days secretly gather,
Receiving every glance, word, and act
That fall from presence,
Taking all our unfolding in,
so that nothing is lost or forgotten.”
We didn’t run in Mexico, and there have been a few skipped days, or alternative workout days, but for the most part, we’ve been impressively vigilant. We’ve also worked to establish better eating habits, watching portion sizes, reading labels. So far, we’ve lost a combined 11 inches!
This is the race through May. Losing some things, gaining some things.
Jack is finishing middle school and the group of French immersion kids that have been together for nine years will now scatter to different high schools. He is anticipating 8th grade day, and the 8th grade dance, celebrating with friends he won’t see all summer, possibly never see again. He’s excited about high school and maybe most of all, about finally getting a cell phone. Loss, and gain.
Emma has finished violin lessons. She promises to practice this summer and is looking forward to starting lessons again in the Fall. She’s anticipating the class party and the fun afterschool activities. She can’t wait to see Montreat friends, and this year she’s going to an overnight camp with her church basketball friends. She’s already missing school friends. Loss, and gain.
Loss, and gain. Exhale, and inhale. Yesterday during the Plum Village guided meditation, Brother Phap Linh said, “Enjoy the exhale. Enjoy the inhale.” That is how I survive May.
Another big transition during May was that Jack, with the rest of his Confirmation class, joined the Church. It was the culmination of a year of study, conversation, retreat, thought, and prayer. Last Sunday each Confirmand read his/her Statement of Faith to their families, mentors, and the Session. There was a beautiful Confirmation liturgy during the worship service. It was a wonderful day.
Jack wrote his Statement of Faith during the Confirmation retreat, which we hosted in Montreat. The words are his alone and evoke for me a shared understanding of faith and love of place. Here is one part of his excellent statement that he agreed I could share:
“God is the stars and galaxies. Always watching over us, always reminding us that there is more to do, more to discover, more to see. I will look to God for guidance and direction.
Jesus is the sound of birds in the morning, a gentle and beautiful reminder that it is time to get up, time to act. I will look to Jesus for forgiveness and praying.
The Holy Spirit is the smell of fresh mountain air, always refreshing us and giving us energy to help people and to put good into the world. I will look to the Holy Spirit for motivation and energy to be the best I can be.”
Enjoy the exhale. Enjoy the inhale.
“In the name of the air,
The breeze,
And the wind,
May our souls
Stay in rhythm
With eternal
Breath.”
