In Which we Practice Mindfulness

The brief, and late, appearance of Fall in North Carolina comes as a welcome relief to the seemingly endless days of heat and humidity. As a native of Washington State, I was not made for this climate, and my tendency to hide out in air-conditioned basements has kept me from ever acclimating to it. It was one such Fall afternoon, cool and shady, as the sun sank behind the house and the massive willow oak in the front yard, that Lazarus and I were sitting on the back porch.

I had always considered myself a cool customer, and had prided myself on my equanimity. Recently however, on the way to work, my heart had inexplicably begun racing. I would find myself breathing very deliberately to overcome the heaviness in my chest, and my hands felt weak and shaky. Even on weekends, these attacks arrived between 8:30 and 9:00 with the regularity of a commuter train. My doctor said it was anxiety, and gave me a(nother) prescription. Lazarus said he could relate.

So, that afternoon, we were both sipping swich licour, as Chaucer might call it. I had taken Lazarus’s advice about Chemist gin, and he was working on some Bénédictine and Brandy. When he gets to the bottom of the cup, he even starts to sound like Chaucer. “Myne eres aken of thy drasty speche!” he would say stiffly, before toppling backward into his can.

Lazarus sipped softly from the small cup, and then closed his eyes, made a yawning motion to spread the liqueur through his mouth, and took a slow, deliberate breath. I could almost see the sweetness of the Bénédictine blossoming, and smiled, because this was exactly the way my Uncle Scott had taught me to taste Irish Cream. I was probably eight or ten years old, and I adored my Uncle. He loved kids, and always had a funny story to tell or a funny poem to recite for us. He had seen me watching the adults linger at the table, sipping their swich licour after dinner, and impishly invited me over. “Take a tiny sip and breathe in,” he said, motioning to his petite and elegant stemmed glass.

“Wait a minute,” Lazarus interrupted. “You were eight or ten when this happened? And this is a good memory?”

“He didn’t mean any harm,” I defended. “If anything, he was teaching me to slow down and appreciate the experience, not to get drunk.”

Lazarus muttered something into his cup and took another sip.

“Back when the stress of my job first began to take its toll, the company Wellness Officer had told me that it was all a matter of not breathing properly.” I continued. “She recommended that if I would only breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, I could cultivate Stillness of Mind.”

Lazarus snorted, and then had a brief coughing fit to clear the Bénédictine from his windpipe. When he could speak again, he said, “Ha! I’ll remember that the next time a pickup truck appears out of nowhere to kill me!”

“None of this makes any sense!” said the dog, who had lolloped up the steps from the back yard. “What you need is more exercise! If we were to take a walk, for example…”

“Yes, yes. In a minute.” I tried to dissemble.

“That’s what you said a minute ago!”

I sipped my gin. “I think she was only half wrong,” I continued again.

The dog looked at me quizzically. “Who…?”

“The company Wellness Officer.”

It was the dog’s turn to snort. “Walk!” she insisted.

“Yes, in a minute… but, see, if I take a sip of this gin and do the opposite, breathe in through the mouth and out through the nose, as my Uncle Scott recommended, I can accomplish the same end. Instead of repeating a mantra, or whatever, I simply let the botanicals bloom up through my nasal passages. It seems mindful enough.”

In fact, the whole world seemed to become more pleasant as I demonstrated this, and I remembered the grin on my Uncle’s face, so many years ago, as he said, “See? What do you think?”

“WALK!” the dog insisted.

Lazarus stood unsteadily, said, “Now swich a rym the devel I biteche!” and fell backward into his can.