Humor by John Christmann
Waiting to Inhale
It is the day after Labor Day and I am waiting to inhale.
Today the alarm rings with a little more authority, a little more urgency. The coffee is stronger. The morning news seems more impactful.
Today the sky is clear and sunny. Outside it still feels like summer, but the shadows cast by stalwart trees are noticeably longer, and their leaves seem a trace lifeless and tired. Like they are hungover from an all night heat party.
Today we creep to work on clogged freeways or await gorged trains at the station. We remark to ourselves how many people are out today. This is, after all, the first day of full employment for those of us lucky enough to be employed.
Today we blow the beach sand off those pocket tools we usually wear on our belt. Tools like focus and energy and industry.
The day after Labor Day is like diving into an icy stream on a warm cloudless day. For a moment the cold water suspends our breath and the current threatens to sweep us downstream. And then, just before our arms start to move and the air explodes into our lungs, before it actually feels good, something tugs familiar, like a reminder to survive.
That’s when we inhale.
Science tells us inhaling is involuntary; that it happens without us. Our diaphragm muscles contract, expanding the cavity around our lungs. Air flows in to fill the vacuum, sending oxygen to the tiny sacs in our lungs and eventually into our blood stream. Our heart thumps. And every cell in our body is revitalized while spent fuel is exhaled on the half breath out into the world.
And then we do it again; fifteen times per minute, for the rest of our lives. Just like that.
But the truth is, sometimes we need help inhaling.
Nine years ago my nephew came to visit. He was 12 or 13 at the time and had never been to the east coast. One warm summer evening on the starting blocks of September we stood beneath 1 World Trade Center and strained our necks upward in marvel.
We placed our hands on the mammoth structure and peered up the long half barrel flutes to the infinite night sky. Our cheeks rested on the rough cool wall as we sighted along the vertical pathways with one eye to forever.
Two weeks later the flutes were gone.
Remember? It took a long time to inhale after that, and we all needed each other to start up again.
I heard an amazing story over the weekend. Several months ago, toward the end of a warm Australian summer, a woman in Sydney gave birth to twins. They were premature, and one did not survive. It would not breathe.
The doctor pronounced the baby, but the mother wanted to hold her stillborn son to say goodbye. She rested the tiny thing on her chest, stroked his lifeless back and, along with her husband, said her sad, loving goodbyes.
Two hours later the baby gasped for air, and then shortly after, opened his eyes.
I never understood why, when the oxygen masks drop from a depressurized plane cabin, I should slip mine on first, before helping my children. This goes against any instinct I have as a parent. But I can accept the fact that if I don’t inhale first, I cannot help my kids fulfill their involuntary acts of breathing.
Except the day after Labor Day. Today they help me. Because they are inhaling the moment they get up.
I like to watch the restful boredom of August give way to their excited smiles brimming with school anticipation. I like to see how easily they hoist their heavy backpacks laden with books. I like how they are eager to start a new school year in brand new clothes they will probably soil with grass stains by recess.
The least I can do is pack them a lunch.
So I guess I am ready to inhale now too. It’s the day after Labor Day and the world is turning. Devastating hurricanes might be brewing, financial markets might be awaiting collapse, and miracle babies might be entering the world.
School might even be starting for all I know.
Tonight I will attempt to eat dinner a little earlier and reverse the high tide of late night bed time hours. I will resign myself to be more committed to schedules and routines that I promise I will unpack from summer vacation.
I am ready to dive into the moving stream and inhale.
Care to join me? The water is . . . fine!
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