For the past two weeks I’ve had trouble breathing. This happens to me when I’m anxious. My breath stops right at the top of my ribs and I can’t fill my lungs. Every once in a while I catch a great yawn and my sanity is restored. I can breathe again, at least for a moment, and I am reminded that my lung paralysis is mostly in my head.
I’m leaving my job in a few days and I know I am disappointing my staff. I want to leave things in a good place for them and there seem to be thousands of loose ends that, even if I work until my last second here, I won’t be able to tie up as neatly as I’d like to. I aim to please and I feel anxious about this burden.
Any kind change is hard for me. Even though I’ve scored a new job that I’m super excited about, there are lots of unknowns. This is certainly contributing to my breathing difficulties.
Yesterday I woke up at 5am, thinking about everything and nothing, the chaos of it all keeping me from falling back to sleep. I knew as soon as I looked outside at the gray-blue light moving downwards toward the horizon of the lake that I needed to be outside. I made a big cup of coffee and headed down the hill to the water.
I walked through the dark for a while as the sky slowly lightened to a tie-dye of lavender- and rose- colored clouds. It was a Hallelujah sky, the kind of celestial light that makes me want to raise up my arms with gratitude for the gift of being alive.
In moments like this I don’t think about breathing. My mind breaks free from its default network of chatter and I enter a semi-meditative state, relaxed and calm. I walked like this for an hour and then turned around to come home. By this time the sky was fully light, the secrets of the pre-dawn color and light display just a memory.
With the daylight my brain turned on again and I felt the familiar tightening in my lungs. Thoughts of the hours, days and weeks ahead crept into my consciousness and I looked towards the lake for solace. I wasn’t ready to start the day.
Close to my house in a marshy area near the marina, I often see wildlife. There are always turtles and Mallards and often a cluster of Hooded Mergansers and Buffleheads. If I’m lucky I’ll spot a Great Blue Heron.
The Great Blue Heron is my favorite bird. For several years now I have recognized her presence as a talisman of good things to come, a sign that everything will be okay. As I rounded the bend, my view of the lake hidden by a cluster of trees, I felt a pit of disappointment in my gut. She wasn’t waiting for me today.
As I walked further south towards the turnoff that would take me up the hill to my house, I spotted a heron through a tiny clearing in the trees. She was in a new spot and she was sitting instead of standing. I walked further on to get a clear view of her.
Through the trees she could not see me and so she stayed where she was, looking towards the pontoons and speedboats rocking back and forth in the nearby moorage. What was she thinking? I stood looking at this queen of calm, hoping to absorb this energy she so effortlessly embodied.
“Ease,” I thought to myself as I watched this favorite bird of mine. This is what she is telling me. This is what I need to learn.
Often when I spot a Great Blue Heron on the lake she is more exposed than she was on this day and, after a minute or so of me watching her, she flies away. I’m always struck by the labor of her flight. Her wings, so vast and prehistoric look burdensomely heavy as she slowly flaps her way across the sky to a more private spot. It looks like so much work.
But when the Great Blue Heron is still, she is peaceful and at ease.
I am pregnant with responsibility right now. There is a heaviness in my wings and I crave a quiet place to rest. I am in flight, in transition, and soon I will land. When I get to my new destination I can rest. Until then, I find this with my friend the Great Blue Heron. She is my teacher. Somehow she always shows up when I need her the most. And when I’m with her, even if it’s just for a few moments, I can breathe again.