The two wolves snarling and nipping at each other this morning are: spontaneity and being methodical. I’m reading a book about breathing. It’s called Breath by James Nestor. A friend recommended it while we were hiking and I was getting my ass kicked on the climb. I had said something about how when I run, I end up huffing and puffing. We joked about me (when exerted) being a mouth breather. The book is about the art and science of breathing (and the dangers of mouth breathing). It’s pretty fascinating and it claims that through proper breathing not only can we can cure/alleviate asthma, sleep apnea, and a host of other maladies, but we can live longer. The book has me thinking about how I breathe and how I might adjust my breathing. This is the methodical wolf. This is the wolf that says I’m going to wake up, drink some water, practice breathing, maybe even do some yoga-like meditations.
Aside from drinking some water and being mindful of my breathing, I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I ate my breakfast, poured myself a cup of coffee, and moved to the corner of the sofa where I intended to read. Yes, yes, I wanted to be methodical, but something also told me that my morning should be dedicated to creativity, not mindfulness. I picked up a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. Right away, I noticed that I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes were scanning the words, but I was thinking about a breathing exercise and also about the beauty of slow mornings. What if I got into better, healthier, more mindful morning routines? I was thinking about a deeper calmness that I feel on the cusp of discovering and how once discovered, it’s bound to radiate outward. I’m a pretty calm guy as it is, but I like the idea of discovering new techniques to enhance and deepen my sense of peace.
Very briefly, I thought I should apologize to any and every ex I’ve had for those less than calm moments we experienced together. I couldn’t remember any one argument or fight or what my contributions to those disagreements were, I just know that whatever we were digging in on, whatever we were taking a position on, probably didn’t matter much and could have been let go. In hindsight, it (disagreeing or digging in) wasn’t what I wanted, and perhaps more importantly, it’s not where I am now. I can’t imagine arguing over much of anything anymore (unless I’m shaking my fist at a cloud – as I sometimes do). I was reminded of the first lines of a poem I recently read – “Broken Spoke” by Mary Ruefle: “You grow old. / You love everybody. / You forgive everyone.” This is the calm. This is the peace that I frequently feel on the cusp of discovering and living… the peace that might be furthered by diving deeper into breathing routines or practice.
Instead of reading, because I wasn’t focused, I thought maybe I should pull out the old blog – get some of this two wolves shit written down. This is the opposite of what I envisioned as my methodical morning. This is me telling myself to let the water follow it’s natural path. If I feel the urge to do x, do x. Don’t force poetry or breathing or yoga when the mind is skipping rope in that other corner of the room. This is the wolf of spontaneity.
No sooner do I think that (and give into it), I remind myself that the point of “training,” in any discipline, is to establish routines and practices that expand muscles or work muscles that have atrophied. Re-focusing my attention on the reading would have been very similar to a meditative practice. Recognize the urge (to capture my mental struggle in a blog post), but set it aside and return to the task at hand, a poem, a breath, an attempt at a different and more disciplined type of morning.
Of course, once I got the initial few paragraphs written, once the moment had passed, I found myself with nothing else to say.
Yep – that was the moment. I wanted to read, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was bucking my desire to be slow and methodical and routine driven, even though I feel as though I’m about to undertake some interesting practices that may unlock some potential, but look at me immediately ignoring the “practice” part of it, and isn’t that the irony, that instead of trying again (at reading or restructuring my day), I get all meta in my thinking and want to write about it, and remember that poem about getting old and loving everything and also imagine how much bigger that will feel with deeper more thoughtful and intentional breathing/thinking?… and oooh, look, squirrel.
Or maybe it’s another wolf vying for my attention.