fresh air

When things are getting me down, I need to work a bit (or a lot) harder at getting out of my head. In one of her reflective essays, writer Anne Lamott refers to her mind as a scary neighbourhood where she shouldn't be allowed to wander alone. I understand that all too well. I find it easier to get out of my own inner scary neighbourhood if I just get outside.

I love that I live less than two blocks from the shores of English Bay. I love that within a few minutes I can be soaking in the sound of the sea tripping over itself on the beach, feeling the damp sea air against my skin, admiring the exuberance of neighbourhood dogs as they play in the surf. And I can breathe, body and soul. We all need air to breathe, of course, but sometimes I need air for more than just a basic biological input. I need to feel it wrap itself around me, fill me, and pull my soul into a bigger, brighter, fresher place.

"We are mere clay, but for the breath of God," says the poet. Maybe my craving for a breath of fresh air is really a craving for the breath of God. And maybe, when I drag this fragile, crumbling, muddy version of myself down to the shore to stand on the sand and consciously inhale, it's the breath of God that fills my lungs. Maybe.