Medicine Buddha Toronto

by Karin Eade

Breathing has always given me a bit of trouble. It’s not that I don’t enjoy breathing or that I have weak lungs or anything like that. Actually, I love to breathe, and in fact, I have very strong lungs – strengthened no doubt by the holding of my breath.  I’ve always been able to stay underwater the longest in any childhood competition and can still body surf for hours with no worries about how big the waves are or how far they may carry me.  Yes, my lungs are quite strong.

It’s my breathing that is weak. Shallow, rapid, like the wings of an old monarch butterfly, filled with holes, ragged on the edges, with long bouts of stillness and occasional quick short flaps. Enough to prove it’s alive but no longer really living. 

So it may seem a surprise that I would be drawn to zazen, drawn to the simple, yet excruciating task of breathing.  I want to breathe and I try with slow, mindful, deep breathes, inhaled through the nose, over the throat, into the chest, and filling the hara. I take a momentary pause — then release the breath just as fully and mindfully as it was captured. I sincerely try but in truth full breathes almost never happen with me… why?

I’ve been told that I use my breath, or more specifically the holding of my breath, as a method of control.  Control of feelings mostly, like fear, sadness, and anger. It’s not an equal opportunity use of control; I freely feel times of happiness, playfulness, and joy. But I also use the holding of my breath to control my actions like speaking, nervous laughter, and crying.

There are times of activity that I breathe without thought; bike riding is one of them.  I start off on a ride with a sense of adventure, feeling childlike and excited. I lock my feet into my pedals with a push that begins a glide. I feel the air in my face and take a long, deep, nourishing breath. My eyes focus sharply and I see every leaf on every tree as if I am moving in slow motion, and yet, each leaf is simultaneously seen as a part of an entire tree, each tree in turn as part of a copse. It is the same for each bird I see, the individual feathers, the collection forming the wren, then the flock — each almost impossibly sharp in focus.  Here it is easy for me to breath, to see, to feel.  I am sometimes able to remember this ease when I am sitting in the zendo, but it is rare that I can viscerally remember, and mostly I just struggle.

I’ve decided that it IS fear that keeps me from breathing while sitting zazen. And I ask myself, “what could be scary about sitting on a comfortable pillow, in a peaceful room filled with loving people?” It’s the question itself that sets up the roadblock — so what if I feel fear? I know that if I breathe deep enough I can create enough room to allow this fear to sit still. I know I have enough room in my body for fear, not just my fear but all fear. I know this because when I feel joy I know –I feel — it is more then just my joy I feel, I know I am carrying joy itself.  So, I take a breath, and I work to welcome fear, to make space for it, and even space for my deep aversion to fear. I will not break as I sometimes delude myself into thinking. Fear is not a pothole I need to avoid.  Fear is as much a part of me as joy, as tender as love, and as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.

Walikig Mountains – August 2009 Issue

Copy right 2009     Karin Eade