November 14th

And the birthday celebration continues. I walk into a local coffee shop were my friend works, and not knowing she was going to be there today, am delightedly surprised when she calls me to the counter and hands over a decadent coffee drink with whipped cream and chocolate sauce smeared on top. Oh how I love the ones who love!

Dr. Svaboda said, “Prana follows attention,” and in honor of this concept, I spend time, each day, thinking about people. I tune my attention towards individuals whom I love and even those who get on my nerves–but I do so with kindness and respect, thinking about people draws me closer to them, and them to me, making the separation less dualistic.

I also spend time thinking about my breathing. Last year I was in the hospital with pneumonia for eight days, during which I underwent lots of antibiotics, breathing treatments, and pounds and pounds of oxygen piped into my node through clear plastic tubes, and a surgery where the docs went in through my throat with a tiny vacuum and sucked out all the phlegm that had accumulated in my lungs due to lack of oxygen. I was, needless to say, very ill. However, I was determined to ride my bike again, and take in deep gulps of air like a “normal” person. So, I concentrated on my breath. Each inhale, expanding my lungs, clearing out the crap that had lodged itself inside, and exhaling fully until I saw stars in my vision. Never before had I been aware of my breath in such a profound way. One year later, I am still focusing in my breath as a way to channel my attention. It’s a great tool to use when seated, walking, riding my bike, doing yoga, even eating. The breath carries with it, prana–vital living force–the essence of being alive.

I have also been thinking about what I really want lately, and here’s what I came up with:

Inspired by the Poem Famous by Naomi Shehab Nye.

I want to be famous like I want to

be missed.

I want to be missed like a favorite

pair of jeans or a ruby ring—something

he thinks about everyday, something she

wishes she hadn’t misplaced. Sweet remorse

and tender longing. I want to be missed

like the end of a sentence–

cut off, leaving the reader with itching

anticipation wandering “what’s next?”

I want to be missed like a lover or

a grandparent or childhood. I want

to be missed like that down vest in winter,

where if you had it, you know you’d be just that

much warmer. I want to be a craving

that gets triggered every time you see the

sunshine.