But guys, time is weird! And this project is keeping me vaguely in touch with the old socially constructed boundaries of time. I might start sleeping in 'til noon and doing my dishes in the bathtub when this project ends. Who knows.
Today's prompt comes from a doctor at Bellevue Hospital in New York City, Dr. Colleen Farrell.
Prompt: Because breathing is essential for life, it touches every part of our existence. What does it mean to you to breathe? When was the last time you really noticed your breath? What were you doing? Was there ever a time when you realized you had taken your breath for granted?
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Breath is everything. We can hold it, we can whistle with it, we can blow bubbles, or make a wish. It can be stale or bad, deep or shallow.
I remember being conscious of breath, or lack of it, as a kid trapped in the cab of a pickup with my chain-smoking dad every weekend. In winter I'd bury my face in my coat sleeve to block out the smoke. In the warmer weather I'd hang my head out the window like a dog.
Years ago, we moved from sea-level New Jersey to the high desert of Northern Utah. On our second day in town we hiked the Crimson Trail, which topped out around 6,000 feet. The trail followed the ledge of a sheer cliff and to this day I can still feel my legs shaking and my head feeling like it was attached by a fraying ribbon, light enough to float away on the next breeze.
It took days for our blood to acclimate to life at elevation. For weeks, every run felt like wearing leaden ankle weights. The first time we returned home to New Jersey for the holidays, we passed a gift shop in the Salt Lake airport with t-shirts that said Utah: Dude, we're all high here. That first run back in Jersey felt like flying.
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