COLUMN: The breath of life

From Sonja Stumacher's, "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96 From Sonja Stumacher's, "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96True love can really throw off your rhythm,From Sonja Stumacher's, "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96True love can really throw off your rhythm,as seen in the hit movie Waiting to Exhate-From Sonja Stumacher's, "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96True love can really throw off your rhythm,as seen in the hit movie Waiting to Exhate-though it doesn't only happen on the screen. From Sonja Stumacher's, "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96True love can really throw off your rhythm,as seen in the hit movie Waiting to Exhate-though it doesn't only happen on the screen.You open your eyes every morning and you breathe in and out. You yawn and stretch and slide your feet to the floor, you climb into your clothing, inhale, exhale. You move and bend your body, fill and empty your lungs. An easy, fluid, rise and fall of your chest, an expansion and contraction of your rib cage, gently cradling a quiet pocket of air inside. An unconscious passage of invisible wind, filling and then slowly flowing free from your body. Every once in a while, though, something makes your breath stop short. Something interrupts the steady, unconscious flow, stirs up the intricate machinery inside your chest. Somehow the air mysteriously catches in your throat, waiting, blocking the breezy passage, trapping all that floating energy inside. Maybe you missed a deadline, had an argument, forgot an assignment, got mugged. Maybe you lost your wallet, dropped your keys. Or maybe, just maybe, you met that certain someone and dared to hope for love, for the real, crazy thing. And now you're not breathing anymore, at least not smoothly, easily. The natural expansion and contraction struggles to regain its momentum while your heart palpitates, your stomach twists and churns, your eyes blur. How has this happened? You're a strong, smart person. You have learned to be practical, to educate yourself, to map out your future and expand your vision of the world. You are not a fool. You aren't supposed to lose your head, stop your breath, just because you cross the path of someone who sparks your imagination, kindles your secret wish. Love isn't supposed to matter this much anyway, at least not yet. Right? The truth is, though, most of us, whether we admit it or not, hide this very need beneath our strong exteriors. Who doesn't dream of finding love? And who among us has never experienced some variation of what I've described? Terry McMillan's Waiting to Exhale illuminated for me a question that has from time to time crept into my poor, scrambled mind: when you really get down to it, when you strip away all the layers of artificial goals and aspirations, isn't companionship, commitment, dedication, tenderness -- yes, love -- what every soul struggles to find? Is it not one of the most powerful forces in the world, beating behind each one of our lives, this ability we have as human beings to unite with one another? We're trained to deny this. Ah well, we're focused individuals, bright students, self-sufficient pursuers of happiness and wholeness. We study hard, learn, voyage, plan. And what, exactly, is the point? To live a successful, solitary existence? I hardly think so. If isolation is the price of success, then I shall happily settle for failure. I might venture to guess that, in reality, most of you hope someday to meet that certain someone who will become your one true love, the kind you've dreamed of having and giving. I count myself among you. We seem to prefer a sort of modern Victorian approach, pretending that love is not a primary concern, only to conceal its status as just that. We celebrate through repression. So I'm going to strip away these careful, protective barriers here for a moment and just plain old admit that companionship, commitment, dedication, tenderness -- yes, love -- are what hold the most sway in my world. For some reason, I still believe. But I do know that the search, the struggle, are perhaps not as simply defined as McMillan has suggested. Waiting to Exhale is the story of "Good Women" who love "Bad Men," men who are misogynistic, egotistical, false, cruel, uncaring. For this reason, the story did not feel entirely real to me. In actual life, you can't always point a finger at the other person. It's not always so crystal clear who's the schmuck and who isn't. Sometimes good people hurt other good people. I'm not sure it's possible to avoid this in life. Indeed, sometimes even the most sincere, caring, honest and true soul will prevent love from growing. This, in my opinion, is far more real, and far more difficult to overcome, than a situation in which one person is undeniably the jerk. If one person isn't clearly the asshole, then perhaps we need to look inside our own hearts first, before we grope beyond for love and happiness. Love, I think, means two whole, centered human beings extending themselves outward, pouring their souls into a single pool of liquid affection. Maybe you have to know isolation first, to perfect your own wholeness, in order to discover peace of mind, clarity of purpose. All of a sudden, isolation is no longer the antithesis of companionship. Rather, it could be the first step, the elemental, basic beginning of the process of finding love. Solitude, then, might be the place beyond which we will not venture, until we can settle there, until we relax, until we allow our bodies to to move and breathe. So for now I'm going to wake up in the morning, to breathe in and to breathe out, to fuel my body's journey through the unconscious motion of the day. The simple rise and fall of my chest will surely continue easily, smoothly, if only I let it. And when, for some reason, this underlying breath stops short, catches in my throat, I'll try to close my eyes, to let loose, and to keep going. I'll try to exhale.