Moving So Slowly

Christmas is coming to our house

Christmas is coming to our house

11 December 2013
12:00 am

T. —

I’m sorry I didn’t write last night. It was a sacrifice I had to make. The migraine came on quite swiftly, and I think it was one of the worst ones I’ve ever had. It was all I could do to crawl into bed with one side of my head feeling like it was about to explode.

The poem I posted yesterday by Ted Kooser has an amazing line about silence and movement:

“Nothing moving,
or so one might think..”

I am reconnecting with a friend, H., and in an email to him last night, I wrote: “I found a poem in a book of Ted Kooser’s poems today, and at the end of the poem, I had written in pencil: “… moving so slowly that those who look quickly would say it doesn’t move at all.” — H.” I don’t know if it was something he said, or whether it was just something we had talked about briefly, but for some reason, the thought reminded me of him at the time. And when I pulled the poem out last night for your letter, I wrote to him immediately, to try to open up another dialogue, since we have a shared history of incredible connections and discussion. When we do our email project in January, I have no doubt that a lot of what I find will come from my letters to him.

And then even better, today, I got an email from sfp, in response to what I wrote to her about my writing to H. (I do a lot of writing letters about letters I have written, to share ideas, to share how relationships evolve, to show how connections are made. It’s a habit I have. Lord knows I talk enough on here about all of the letters I write to other people). She said:

“Regarding the “moving so slowly…” quote – in the lecture connected to the cellular breathing meditation practice I’m doing this week, R. talks about the monks that used to go off in their caves for months or years or whatever and meditate, and that after a while, their physical breath would slow down to the point that it would seem (or maybe it actually was) like they weren’t breathing through their mouth or nose or lungs anymore, but rather straight into the pores and cells of their bodies. The physical breath became unnecessary because their whole body was breathing. I know it’s not directly related to what you wrote H. about, but I thought of it, so thought I’d share it.”

I am so grateful I posted the poem, then wrote to H., then received that gem from sfp, because all of it led to being able to breathe my way through most of the migraine headache pain. I was only afraid I might be dying a few times. But I thought again of the bone-cracking cold.



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