A storm is coming in off the ocean. I heard the first gust about 4:30 as it bounced the bus slightly. Since then, the wind has become a steady background that I only notice if I stop and pay attention, or if it stops. It is a bit like breathing, only noticed if focused on, or, again, if it stops.

I’m a bit focused on breathing lately because it has become hard for me to do. Walking 10 paces exhausts me, a shower leaves my pulse racing and me gasping. I carry oxygen when I go out. I’m not looking for sympathy. That’s just how it is now, and this isn’t about that.

About an hour ago the rain started. A real Oregon soaker. Occasional squall cells rock us with a noisy pounding on the windows and the metal roof. There is a certain charm and comfort to low music, a book, and hot cup of coffee, while sitting out a storm on the coast…it’s a Northwest thing I suppose.

One of the rewards of being old and retired is being able to do whatever I want. With that in mind, I have been taking banjo lessons for nearly a year. For several months I wandered the internet looking for lessons on how to begin. I must have watched 50 videos on variations in learning clawhammer banjo. They talked, and I plunked. I had no idea if I was learning anything. Lydia was encouraging and uncritical…but that’s kind of her job. She’s always been kind to me. I found several instructors who did online instruction and tried two of them. One was a bit younger than me and very accomplished. After a few weeks, I decided he didn’t inspire me, he didn’t teach to my level. The other instructor taught to my level, but just wasn’t having any fun. I confess that at my age, I don’t expect to become highly proficient. I do expect to have fun. Why else go to the trouble of learning the darn thing. I moved on to an instructor who had lesson modules. He was obviously younger than me but, that happens often after the age of 70.  His lessons were interspersed with discussions about learning. He spoke to the teacher in me. He talked about dichotomies, about control balanced with just letting go and having a fun go at it. He didn’t talk about Zen, but he was talking it. I was interested, and I began to learn.

A few months ago, he began a four-part, weekly training. We have conversations, a lesson, a short narrative about his thoughts on being a better musician, and a weekly jam session. When I signed on for the first session, his introductory picture was a placard that said “BREATHE”. I knew then that I had found the right place.

I’ve done martial arts for two decades, I’m an accomplished black belt. I’ve been a teacher and stood in front of 30 seventh grade students to teach them pre-algebra when my major was literature. I’ve given the commencement address to a gym full of students and parents. In all those situations, I knew I had to breathe, take that first inhalation, the step before the step. Instant Zen. Control the breathing, be aware of the moment only, let it go and move onto the next. Move on by staying still. It worked.

I do not mean to be esoteric. I breathe and, with luck, I will continue to do so for a long time. When I pay attention to that breathing, I focus on the most basic element of my continued existence. If I stop breathing, I stop being. Hence (I love when I get to use that word) the reminder to breathe is saying to relax, be present. Be alive. It’s a wish and a caution like “be careful” or “mind how you go.” At least that’s how it seems to me.

I still get frustrated. I still stress.  I still forget to breathe. And I stop having fun. That’s how life works, for me at least.

Life is short.

Breathe.

The Road