Breathe

Breathe
by Jen Maki
written Nov. 20, 2001

         “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” ~ Genesis 2:7

         The world was white and furious and she was weary. The day was young yet an insistent headache had already begun its relentless march across her skull, tapping its way into insanity. She resigned herself to a terrible day; those headaches once started would not quit until she cried out for mercy and hid herself away under the warm covers of her bed. Her knuckles were white, echoing the flurry of snow and activity around her, gripping the steering wheel with the steadiest hand she could muster. She was wearing sunglasses to help ease the glare of the raging snow, leaning forward to see the taillights of the car ahead of her. She was dimly aware of the slow moving procession of cars around her.
         On snow and blizzard free days this highway was crowded with crazies going more than 130 kilometres per hour. Sometimes she was one of them. But on a day like this, the crazies were even more dangerous. The ones who believed that they had survived many Alberta winters and one like this meant absolutely nothing. Not even when the highway underneath the tires was slick with snow and ice, and the wind was tossing their vehicles to and fro, and the snow painted a blanket of whiteness so totally complete about them that they believed themselves to be the last and only inhabitants of earth.
         So with her weariness, and her headache, and the crazies on the road, she began to worry. She began to wonder if she should turn back. Already she had seen the taillights of car after car careen madly into the ditch. A somewhat safer place than the road. But she only had another half hour to go until she got to work. She could make it.
         Her joints began to ache with the tension of gripping the steering wheel so tight. She could feel her little car reeling from blasts of wind as larger trucks passed to the left of her. Her eyes were sore from staring so absolutely ahead. She raised a hand to rub her eyes and almost lazily noticed what was happening.
         A car ahead of her was making its swaying way into the ditch which was already littered with cars. As if in slow motion she watched it swing from the highway, plowing into the snow, causing great drifts to furrow around it, effectively burying it in a silent, white grave. And when she looked ahead to the road again, her eyes and her feet and her brain did not move together. For her brain screamed at her to move, to turn, to brake, to get out of the way, but her bemused and weary eyes merely watched as a semi-truck fishtailed in front of her, its wheels making no sound but her brain knew what sounds they would be making, a sick squealing and screeching of hot rubber against abrasive ice. She knew what would happen in only a moment. That semi-truck would not fall gracefully into the ditch like the others. No, it would whip around like a dancer, then it would turn on its side and the sounds of rubber on ice would seem like music compared to the sounds of metal on asphalt, which sounds she knew that she would be hearing soon. And the sounds that would be the last she would ever hear.
         Directly in its path, her little car continued on. Finally her brain gave her good advice. You turn, you die. You brake, you die. You stay, you die. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and waited for the inevitable.

         “Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled: thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust.” ~Psalms 104:29

         He was hungry. It was normal. He was born hungry, and he would die hungry. There were some things that one could get used to. Wearing clothes stolen from the outdoor markets was one of them. Having no shoes in the winter was another. Sleeping in the subway station, underneath one of the seats with a close friend to huddle by and keep you warm, that was another. And hunger, yes, even hunger you could get used to. Until all that remained was a vague desire about being warm and being fed, nebulous hopes and dreams that were easily forgotten with the fumes of glue.
         He could never remember a time when he was looked upon with kindness. His mother beat him, his father he never knew. Once in a while he would kill a street dog and find a little wild jubilation in that. That he could have the power over one small, simple thing, one thing to control in his uncontrollable life where every day was a battle to stay warm and fed.
         He lived in the bombed-out remains of an old hotel. In the summer it was grand, with the sea crashing behind him and the pockets ripe for the picking. When people were a little more generous, and he could steal bread and fruit from the busy markets. Winter was something else. The saltiness of the air around the sea kept the snow from staying on the ground, but it was a bitter, wet cold. A cold that would huddle inside his skin, making his jaws ache and his legs turn various shades of purple and blue. Sometimes on those days he would stand in his bare feet above the harbour and wonder how cold the water was. Someone once told him that water that cold could kill you instantly. He figured he had suffered enough throughout life to warrant an easy and pain-free death.
         It was November again. He thought he was sixteen years old. Maybe he was only fourteen. He didn’t know. All he knew is that every November he was a year older than the November before. Last November he had shoes. But this November he didn’t. Last November he and his friends had robbed and pilfered and he had been fed. This November he was alone, his friends dead or now enemies, and his stomach was empty.
         So he haunted the trams, hoping to spot some charitable woman or some kind-looking man who he could waltz up to with a despairing expression and tell them that he was hungry, swaying his arm across his stomach as he did so. And if that didn’t work, well, he now had a knife.
         It wasn’t a big knife. It couldn’t do any real damage. At least, that’s what he thought. It was four inches long with a dull edge, the sides made of red cracked enamel. He would run his fingers over the edge, pressing hard, wondering how hard he would need to press it in order to bleed.
         One day he saw them. He had seen them before. They were two foreign women with long blonde hair and big jackets to keep them from the cold. One of them had glasses. They were smiling, and talking in that foreign tongue. He sidled up to them, wondering if they could understand him. “I’m hungry,” he complained, rocking his arm across his stomach. “Give me money, I’m hungry,” he said again.
         He could see the bulge in the pocket. He could see one woman reach into her pocket, but the other woman with glasses stopped her. Using the crowd around him on the tram, he managed to get to the side of the woman with glasses. He could see a stop ahead. It was late, and almost the end of the line. He had luck with him tonight.
         He watched the woman with glasses as she turned around to face him, the faintest streak of fear showing on her face. Triumph flooded through him. He was in control again, he had the power. She was just like those dogs, who had looked at him with such mournful eyes. They knew they were going to die.
         He flicked out the knife, and the woman gasped. He held it to her side and poked, not too strong, but enough to get her attention. He could sense their alarm as they spoke to each other in those words he could not understand. The other woman reached into her pocket and drew out a fat purse. He could feel the pressure of his hand as he watched the purse come closer and closer and he pressed harder and harder. Suddenly, the woman with the glasses took a large, painful breath that, had it more power, would have been a scream.

         “In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind.” ~Job 12:10

         She stood there, in the darkness, and cursed the sky. Not just the sky, but whatever Being that inhabited those high places and dared to manipulate her life. Whatever Being had brought about her birth into such a harsh and unforgiving world. Whatever Being would now sit idly by and watch as she brought about her own death.
         Thirty four years. Thirty four years she had inhabited the planet and learned only that life was harsh, that fate was a jilted maiden, and that destiny had a grand design that she was never part of. Thirty four years to learn that to love and lose was far worse than never loving at all. Thirty four years to realize that the next thirty four would be just the same. A never-ending circle of toil and trials and tears. A cycle of sickness, and failure, and despair.
         She wished she could blame someone else for her misfortunes; indeed, she had attempted to for the last thirty four years. She could have blamed her family for never understanding her, she could blame her friends for never caring enough about her, she could blame her boyfriends for never seeing past her walls. But now, standing on the steel girders of the bridge and hearing the whispering sucking of the water below she realized for the first time in thirty four years that she could not blame anyone but herself.
         A therapist had once told her that life is not about what happens to you, it’s about how you react to life. It can throw you something totally unexpected and you can sit and cry about it or you can do something about it. She had no idea what he was talking about. And after paying seventy-five dollars to hear his stellar advice on reacting to life, she reacted by never seeing him again.
         Perhaps that would have kept her from reaching this point. This point where she stands on a narrow girder over a river of water, cold, merciless water, wondering if this could be the ultimate reaction. A lesson worth seventy-five dollars. She had no money, no job, no love, only an empty apartment where she sat in misery, waiting for the telephone to ring, waiting for her life to happen to her like it should have. She deserved that much at least.
         So many times she would have wished someone to ask her, “How are you really doing today?” Then she could have answered truthfully, and admitted that her life was spiraling out of her control, that her doubts and fears could rip her apart, that she wondered why she would have ever been born if only to lead a half-life like this. Where is the purpose? Where is the grand design? Where is she needed, and waited for?
         Not that she had any great tragedies to overcome her. Only the bone-sapping weariness of a life devoid of laughter and friendship. Only the terrible relentless march of years upon years of loneliness. Only the careful plans that created such castles of dreams upon blue skies that were shattered with poverty and poor choices. So if anyone were to stop her and ask her why, she could give them no real reason. Only that life was a burden. End of story.
         She felt the breeze lift her cloak around her face and noticed that she had been crying. Very well. Tears are allowed at a time like this. She felt the cold steel under her fingers and the comforting strength of it under her feet. She looked down and watched the endless play of lights on the rippling, flowing river water. She took a deep breath.

         “His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day his thoughts perish.”
~Psalms 146:4

         He was wilfully disobeying his mother. He knew it. In no uncertain terms she had told him that he could not, would not go to the city with his friend. End of discussion. He had stormed out, belligerent and angry, yelling that she was interfering, that she was wrong, that she was a bad mother, all sorts of things that were untrue and said in the heat of the moment. Later, he would regret them.
         But not yet. For he had grabbed his jacket and wallet, saying he needed some air, and his mother, knowing his volatile temper, had let him be. She probably knew exactly what was going to happen. He was going to go to Chase’s house, and they were going to get in the car, and they were going to go to the city in the middle of the night just as she had told him not to.
         And so he did, proving that mothers know their children better than given credit for. Grieving, worried mothers who would sit by the window for hours on end, praying for safety. He was blissfully unaware, as most children are. He ran to Chase’s house, not even thinking yet of going to the city, just angry. Why, why had she said no? She was usually easy-going enough, and going to the city was not a big deal. Anything to escape the monotony of life in a dying town. He did not think to ask her the reasons why she had said no and if he had, he would have laughed at the motherly intuition that told her that something would happen. He would have called her silly and a worry-wart. Usually he would have been right.
         But he ended up at Chase’s house, his jacket still slung over his shoulder, the cool night air feeling good on his skin. He was in good shape, being a member of the football team, and the run from his house across town had kept him warm. Chase opened the door and smiled. “Ready to go, man?”
         “Nah, my mom won’t let me.”
         “Won’t let you?”
         Even as those words left Chase’s mouth, he decided. “Forget her, let’s go,” he replied. And he smiled and laughed and tried to displace the lump of ice that formed around his heart. He had yelled, he had stormed, he had bullied, but he had never before deliberately disobeyed her. It made him even more sullen.
         With forced hilarity he laughed at Chase’s jokes. They picked some CD’s and got into the car. They sped through the sleepy town and he grew nervous at the tires squealing, but he dared not say a word. He usually enjoyed Chase’s driving, or lack thereof. Not tonight. They finally ended up on the narrow, two lane highway. The prairie was dark and the moon shone brilliantly above, bathing the clouds in brightness. It was such a clear night that his fears were eased somewhat. If something was going to happen, he would see it coming. It was all right.
         Yes, he would. But not Chase. And Chase was driving, listening to the thumping music, drumming his hands on the wheel, whooping with exuberance. He saw it out of the corner of his eye. A truck driving down a country road that led to the highway. A truck that was not slowing down, even though they were driving down the highway, speeding toward the intersection where they had the right of way and the trucker would have to stop.
         So he watched as the truck kept on coming, weaving slowly from side to side. A knot of icy fear constricted his stomach. But he didn’t want to say anything until he was sure that the truck wasn’t going to stop. It happened so often. Drivers screeching to a halt just in time and the other car laughing at the worry-wart who would grip the door with both hands.
         Chase was oblivious. The truck was not stopping. The brilliant moon illuminated the grill of the truck as it headed straight for him. He no longer had time to say anything. He was going to die. He gripped the door and took a deep breath and wondered why he didn’t listen to his mom.

         “...Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live:
“...and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.” ~Ezekiel 37:5, 10

         White highway and a truck and a last breath. She turned neither left nor right, she did not touch her gas nor brake. In that brilliant stasis of time, she realized that the fish-tailing truck was careening so wide that she would not hit it at all. A moment stretched as thin as a rubber band, she watched as the truck skidded on its side, flipped around her car, scarcely missing her by a foot, and landed with plumes of white smoke into the ditch. She was unscathed. She let out an explosive breath, her heart pumping so fast and furious she wasn’t sure if she would live. Her hands didn’t stop shaking for five hours afterward. When she arrived at work she sat still with a cup of coffee scalding her shaking hands. And sat. And sat. And when her body finally willed itself again into wakeful alertness, she said a silent prayer for her own personal miracle.

         He saw the purse in her hand, and he could feel the squirming of the woman with the glasses at his side. He grabbed the purse and slowly took the knife away. Food, he would have food. Food and shoes and even more glue to forget his life with. The blonde woman with glasses started breathing again, slowly and evenly. He glanced at her face as he prepared to get off the tram. It was calm. And then it melted slowly into a shy smile, a smile that wasn’t being faked by her lips, but a smile that crinkled her eyes. With a slow hand, she reached into her other pocket and drew out her purse. The look of kindness on her face was enough to cause his soul to wrench with anxiety. Never before had he regretted a robbery. This was the first time. He could not remove his eyes from her face, her eyes that now had a tear or two as she held the purse out to him and in his own language, with halting words and an abominable accent, she said, “Go, eat, and may God be with you.”
         His fingers trembled as he took the purse. He looked up at her face again, filled with doubt. She pushed the purse into his stomach and said again, “Go, eat, and may God be with you.”
         The tram stopped. He lurched out, holding the purses in his hands like they were on fire. “Thank you,” he managed to say as the tram doors shut. He watched it scurry away, sparks flying from the electric wires above. The two women were gripping each other, and the woman with the glasses was crying. But she looked at him, and smiled, and he never stole again.

         Dark wetness and sucking whispering that lulled her senses and she wondered if she had to. It was so final. Was her life really that bad? From somewhere behind her she could hear the exaggerated, scuffling footstep of someone being painfully obvious. She slowly turned to look behind her. It was a man, wearing tattered rags of clothing and sporting a long and tangled beard. He stank of refuse and filth. She wished he would go away so she could just make up her mind and get on with it.
         “Hey, lady,” he called. She ignored him. “Lady!” he called again, more insistently.
         “What?” she spat back at him.
         “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.” This remark took her so entirely by surprise that she looked more closely at him.
         “What did you say?”
         “You look like you need a cup of coffee. So do I. Let’s go get one.”
         “What makes you think I’m going to have a cup of coffee with you?”
         “Because someone will thank me one day.” His voice and face were sincere. He held his dirty hand out to her. While she hesitated, he added, “Believe me, you don’t want to do this. Nothing is worth that. Look at me, look at who I am. Now take my hand and have a cup of coffee with me.”
         “You really believe that someone will thank you some day?”
         “Yes. And I believe that someone will be you.”
         She allowed herself to come down from the narrow bar of steel, her hand enveloped in the rough grasp of the man who had saved her soul. A man she felt wrenching pity for, and was surprised to find that he had the same pity for her.

         With a force more terrible than anything he’d ever known before, even greater than that time he was tackled by more than half of the opposing team, he watched as the truck neared them, he saw with the brilliant moonlight that the driver was asleep at the wheel, he knew that he was going to be hit on his side, he felt the crushing impact as the connection of truck and car was made, he heard the booming crack, he thought he was going to die. But moments passed and he finally noticed that the truck was impacting the back of the car, near the trunk, causing them to spin madly in a wild, screeching circle of hot rubber tires before coming to rest in the narrow grassy ditch. Bemused, he saw the truck spiral almost gently into the other ditch, slowly tipping over to land on its side.
         He looked at his hands, still locked in their death grip on the handle of the car door. He looked at Chase’s face, which was white and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. And he learned how to breathe again.


         It could be said that the simplest definition of a human is someone who breathes. And in that regard, we are all the same. It is what we add to that breath, add to life, that makes us more. Just as a human is so much more than just breath, so each of us is so much more. We add upon that breath those characteristics that define us, whether they be intelligence, capacity for love, and hope. Life is more than merely breathing; it is living and laughing and crying and caring and dreaming.
         So when those instances arrive in our lives to teach us that we are more than just breath, we must heed them. Why must we be threatened with a loss of breath, a loss of life, before we understand that we are more than what we seem to be? Yet we all have that defining experience, whether it be great or small, and experience that fear as the very essence of our human nature, our capacity to breathe, is threatened.
         Because one day our breath will be taken from us and our bodies will be laid down to rest and then those other attributes that we have built will be so valued. For love, laughter, and hope will rise with us into the next life and those have not those qualities but only breathe will find themselves bereft indeed. This life is the time to make of ourselves more than what we are, for death is inevitable and eternity is real.
         What better way to live our lives now and in the eternities as beings of love, goodness, and light? We are more than what we seem to be.
         May we all remember those experiences that have taught us to deeply value life and breath. May we now know that we are more, infinitely more, than what we seem to be.