The Exhale

“It’s not possible to constantly hone in on the crisis. You have to have the love, and you have to have the magic. That’s also life.” Toni Morrison, 1977

I bring to mind my child self, sitting in a classroom. The teacher asks us to name examples of things we do automatically, without thinking.

“Tie your shoes?” I offer. It’s the only thing I can think of.

The teacher laughs, not unkindly, and says, “I was thinking more like breathing.”

I am 7.

There is a vacation home (not ours) and a pool (also not ours).

Down the dusty road, we carry towels and ripe watermelons — the real sweet kind with seeds and all.

The grandfather takes an ornate key from his pants pocket and unlocks the heavy gate that separates what’s Out Here from what’s In There, guarded by tall stone walls. He cuts us all generous slices of watermelon with the machete he will use to tend to the grounds. But first, he picks up the net and carefully skims dead leaves and wasps off the surface of the pool, while all the kids stand around in their underwear, sprinkling salt on each bite of watermelon, impatiently waiting to jump in.

I wander off to check out this mysterious place that somebody, somewhere, owns but doesn’t seem to need if they only stay there sometimes, for fun. I can hardly wrap my mind around it. So, I press my face against a sliding glass door, wondering what it looks like behind the gauzy white drapes blocking my view.

There’s a big splash behind me. Then come the voices, calling me to join them in the pool.

I can’t swim.

Today is the day I will “learn.”

By this time, I’ve already learned the hard way that my body isn’t my own. I’ve learned that my “no” doesn’t count. The same person who taught me this now picks me up, laughing. No one seems to notice how terrified I am. Instinctively, I pinch my nose tight, but his hands overpower mine, telling me I will need both hands to swim. He says he will count to three. At two, he throws me into the deep end.

My body flails under the water, eyes wide and wild, hands reaching for something, someone, to hold onto. Somehow in my desperation, I make it back to him, and he pulls me out of the water just long enough to throw me back in. Again.

And again. Until I learn to hold my breath.

Everyone seems to think it’s hilarious.

Soaked and trembling on the edge of the pool, I force a smile. I want to laugh too.

I am not yet born.

My mother learns to disconnect from her body to keep the overwhelm at bay. Her mother too. And hers. Through the umbilical cord they pass this imperative: figure out how to make it hurt less.

Hold your breath.

I am 23.

I find myself, again, in a swimming pool.

My partner, Lucas, and I are preparing for our first trip together, which, for me, will include several firsts. Top of the list: getting scuba certified. We have signed up for an accelerated course, meaning we’ll spend a few days training in a pool, then take our final exam in the ocean.

I put on a brave face, just like I’ve learned. I don’t know how to tell Lucas how afraid I am. Plus, I want to impress him.

Early on, we learn the basic hand signals necessary for communicating underwater. And, there’s one the instructors signal to me more than once or twice. It’s a sign that indicates they don’t see any bubbles coming from my regulator, meaning they can tell I’m holding my breath. And when it comes to working with compressed oxygen and underwater pressure, holding your breath is a recipe for disaster.

Miraculously, I make it to the final exam. Not-so-miraculously, I fail. Even though I try to fake the funk, the body doesn’t lie.

The instructor indicates that it’s time for me to perform the mask clearing exercise, and the second the cold water hits my face, I panic. Heart racing, I start sucking oxygen in from the regulator like my life depends on it, but it feels like nothing is reaching my lungs. I look up toward the surface to find my escape, and though they warned us time and time again about the dangers of surfacing too quickly, I’m too afraid to care.

Ashamed, I find a quiet corner of the beach to cry like a baby.

“And as I give myself permission to name my fear instead of hiding it or pretending it’s not there, I feel space open up inside me. Space to hold the possibility of a different outcome.”

In Playa Girón, I decide to give scuba one more try.

Lucas and I wake up early to load onto an old bus decorated with stickers placed by travelers from all over the world, tanks rattling in the back as we head down the bumpy road. Our dive master, Ruben, takes us to El Tanque, a tranquil site with waters so calm and clear it resembles a swimming pool.

We begin our dive, and while it’s much better than my last experience, I am still nervous. Every few seconds, I glance up toward the surface, trying to keep track of how far it is and how quickly I could get up there if I needed to. The bubbles from my regulator bump up against my mask, and I reflexively use one of my hands to keep it in place.

Ruben signals to me, “You OK?”

I signal back “I’m OK.”

This happens once more before he signals for me to come up and meet him on the surface.

“No matter how many times you tell me you’re okay, I know you’re not okay,” he says.

His eyes, the same clear blue as the water surrounding us, are filled with care and sincerity. I feel seen in a different way than I’m used to. So I confide in him that I’m afraid that my mask is going to come off. And as I give myself permission to name my fear instead of hiding it or pretending it’s not there, I feel space open up inside me. Space to hold the possibility of a different outcome.

Ruben reassures me that I’m not alone, that I’m safe here. And I believe him.

We continue the dive, and instead of focusing on my escape routes, my eyes are opened to the wonder all around me.

I am 27.

I’ve been invited to participate in a week-long Zen practice at Westerbeke Ranch.

I have the chance to witness and try on a variety of different practices, including zazen (sitting meditation), kado (flower-setting), okyo (chanting), shodo (calligraphy) and tai ji. Yet, it is samu (work) that holds the most important lesson for me.

When it comes time for samu, a part of me relaxes, feeling in my element at last. Grateful as I am to be here, I can’t shake the feeling of not-belonging. As I look around me, I can’t help but compare my lack of experience to everyone else who appears to have not only years of practice under their belts but the outfits to prove it. My emoji-emblazoned sweatpants no longer feel like the brilliant fashion statement that they did when I was packing.

But work? Work I can do. And I actually look forward to putting in some elbow grease.

We’re paired off into small groups to collectively tend to the space we’re practicing and staying in for the week. My pair is responsible for preparing the long tables that will be used for shodo practice.

First, we start by filling buckets with a mix of hot water and vinegar. Anything we use to clean must be able to safely return to the earth without causing harm. I’ve never used anything less than brightly colored, sweet-scented chemicals in plastic bottles to clean, and part of me is skeptical about how clean something can really get without them, but I have trust in the process.

Buckets filled, we then have to take each table from where they are stacked, and set them down in order to clean them off with our rags. I get to work how I normally do: silently and with urgency. My muscle memory kicks in, remembering all the days lifting and carrying boxes and furniture because my family was moving yet again.

Mari Rose, my partner for the day, gently brings me back to the present moment. “Tell me what you want me to do,” she says. A little embarrassed, I realize I haven’t been communicating with her at all, assuming that if I start moving the table a certain way, she should simply get it and follow along.

Moving more slowly and working together, we get two tables down, one for each of us. We dip our rags into the water and vinegar mixture. On my table, I see dirt, smudges, lines from crayons and markers jumping out at me. I’m grateful for what feels like a chance to prove myself, and I start scrubbing as hard as I can, feeling proud when I notice stubborn stains lifting.

“I should tell you,” Mari Rose cuts in. “It’s cleaning, yes. But it’s practice too. Remember to breathe.”

Surprisingly, a genuine laugh comes out of me. She cracks a joke about how she could hear me scrubbing, and I laugh even more, imagining myself in my mind’s eye.

I dip my rag and wring it out, starting again. This time, I breathe from my core, low and slow, syncing up each inhale and exhale with each swipe of the rag against the surface of the table. I think about the kindness Mari Rose has offered to me, what it feels like to pour that back into this labor as a manifestation of care. I feel the tightness releasing slowly from my shoulders, neck, and the small of my back. Releasing the worry of not-good-enough, not right, not safe.

I lift my head and look at the beautiful place I’m in. The colors of the trees, grasses, bushes, flowers, birds, sky, and clouds. The gentle breeze, the sound of people talking and laughing nearby, tending to this space joyfully.

I realize it’s not too late to learn how to breathe again.

I am long gone, returned to dust.

My descendants know that to be alive is to feel. They practice being in touch with their bodies because they know the wisdom they carry from birth. They breathe full and deep, and they don’t suck in their stomachs.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale is their lullaby.