How breath becomes the anchor that brings us back to this moment
The Experiment
If I am 100 percent immersed in my experience of breathing, can I simultaneously be immersed in my experience of the past or future?
This question is my anchor back to this moment. It causes me to question, hmm, can I? And then experiment.
Whatever I’m worrying about – and there’s a lot to worry about these days, collectively and personally – can I worry about it with great intensity so that it overwhelms me, AND simultaneously commit my full attention to breathing?
Can I replay that conversation from three days ago while also feeling my ribs expand and my belly soften? Can I rehearse tomorrow’s difficult email while also noticing the slight pause at the top of each inhale?
The answer, when I actually try it, is no. I can’t. Not fully. Not 100 percent in both places at once. And that’s the whole point.
Not About Perfection
For me, it’s not about an ideal of mastery, or of being in a perfected state of some kind, because I am always changing along with my environment – therefore my practice is constantly shifting in accordance.
Some days the breath comes easily and anchors me instantly. Other days my mind is so scattered that even feeling one full breath all the way through feels impossible. Some moments I can drop into presence like sliding into warm water. Other moments I’m flailing, grasping, trying to force something that won’t be forced.
Rather it’s like surfing. Sometimes on certain breaks the waves are predictable, and other breaks each wave is different and a different approach has to be taken.
You can’t surf the same wave twice. You can’t breathe the same breath twice. Each one is its own moment, its own experience, its own opportunity to be here or to drift elsewhere.
This Breath, This Breath, This Breath
And the one constant for me is what through it all calls me out of all the other times and spaces and anchors me here and now.
This breath. This breath. This breath…
Not the breath I took five minutes ago. Not the breath I’ll take in an hour when I’m calmer or more centered or have my life more together. This breath. The one happening right now, in this body, in this moment, whether I’m paying attention to it or not.
It’s always here. Always available. Always waiting for me to come back.
The mind can be in a thousand places – replaying, rehearsing, analyzing, worrying, planning, remembering. But the breath? The breath is only ever here. It doesn’t exist in the past or future. It only exists now.
And when I remember this – when I drop my attention into the physical sensation of breathing – everything else has to recede a little. Not because I’ve mastered anything or transcended my human tendency to drift, but because I literally can’t be 100 percent immersed in two experiences at once.
When the World Feels Heavy
The world feels heavy right now. There are things happening that are hard to hold, hard to witness, hard to not spiral into helplessness about. And the mind wants to fix it, solve it, understand it, carry all of it all the time.
But I can’t be in all places at once. I can’t fix everything from my worried mind. What I can do is come back to this breath. Not as escape, but as the only place from which I can actually respond instead of react. The only ground steady enough to stand on when everything else feels like it’s shifting.
This isn’t by passing on what’s happening or pretending everything is fine. It’s more finding the one anchor that’s always available, so we don’t drown in the overwhelm before we can be of any use to anyone, including ourselves.
The Invitation to Experiment
Can you be fully immersed in the experience of breath and simultaneously be elsewhere, fully immersed in thoughts of any kind?
Try it right now. Pick something you’re worried about – something personal, something global, something that feels too big to hold. Hold it in your mind with full intensity. And then, without letting go of that thought, try to also feel your next breath completely. The temperature of the air. The movement of your ribs. The slight pause between inhale and exhale.
What happens?
When you’re not forcing the thoughts away. Not trying to achieve some blissed-out state where the mind is perfectly still. Just noticing that when I fully inhabit this breath, there’s less room for everything else. The worry is still there, but it’s not consuming me. The past is still there, but I’m not lost in it.
Coming Back
Each wave is different. Each breath is different. Each moment asks something slightly new of us.
But the practice remains the same: Can I come back to this breath? Can I anchor here, even for just one inhale, one exhale? Can I surf this wave – this moment, this breath, this exact experience – instead of trying to ride the one that already passed or the one that hasn’t arrived yet?
That’s the anchor. That’s the practice. That’s what calls us home.
Loving you always!
Meghan