60) Breathing exercises
Saturday. The sweet peas in the back garden have climbed up into the lower branches of the silver birch, which is itself hanging lower and leafier than usual, I suspect on account of all the rain we’ve been having. The pea petals and birch catkins are all mixed up in a riot of colour and embrace that I’ve not witnessed in ten springs in this place. I spent the morning at the Physio and later worked my way through the weekend household chores. This afternoon though has been quiet and slow, dampened by the persistent rain, softened by the low cloud and the low light. And the fact that I don’t have to be anywhere. I just turned on all the lamps and poured a glass of wine. There’s a bit of time before I’ll need to think about dinner. My Physio handed me two pages of breathing exercises to do. “Practice until it becomes a habit,” he said. I suspect he thinks there’s only so much blame I can keep placing on my 10-to-15-hour weekly commute and the car accident. I suspect too, there’s only so much he can do with our weekly session. At some point I’m going to have to look in the mirror and accept that this is as much about tension as anything else.
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Sunday. I slept well last night. The rain – over 30 mL if you can believe it – finally stopped and there was a slight breeze through the open window. I overslept and missed Holy Communion, but I don’t suppose God minded. After all, sleep was the first order of the day for Elijah before the holy mountain trek. After breakfast I put on my hat and gardening gloves and weeded the patio by hand, deadheaded the roses and geraniums, and swept up the debris from last night’s deluge. I nipped out for groceries I’d forgotten yesterday and cleared the ironing pile. And now, I’m in that familiar place at the end of a day, with a bit of time before preparing dinner. Soon I’ll turn on the lamps and welcome the evening. I’ll be giving the Bible study at Hope Valley tomorrow – Psalm 139. I know it without reading it, but maybe I’ll spend a while meditating on it before dinner. There are four verses that trouble me more with each passing year. Of course, they’re followed by “Search me, God, and know my heart… know my anxious thoughts.” So maybe God knows they’re unsettling. Know my heart and know my anxious thoughts; like how Joshua 6 makes me afraid, even before my newsfeed was full of Israeli politicians spouting hatred and bombs raining down.
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Monday. “It’s just the waves.” My spiritual director and I had been talking about Peter on the lake taking his eyes of Jesus and beginning to sink. “It's just the waves,” she said, and I guess she’s right. Even Lilias Trotter’s words were echoing in my ear: “Turn full your soul’s vision to Jesus.” I love the hymn those words inspired. Strange then that I should keep forgetting its lesson and find myself overwhelmed by this year’s whirlwinds. Though part of me feels I ought to be overwhelmed by the whirlwind – fascism and racism are on the rise, meanwhile there are millions marching all over the world in the name of peace and children but largely ignored. Or arrested. These are dark days. What does Andrea Gibson say, “our skin is not impervious…”
“I think my last blog worried quite a few people,” I said.
It was a warm day, so I watered the garden when I arrived home. The honeysuckle was still alive with bees. The spare room window is open this evening and I can smell the honeysuckle. I’m reminded of the anointing in Bethany, and how the fragrance filled the house. Mary knew what it meant to turn her full soul’s vision to Jesus. I should be more like Mary of Bethany. But then, I’m not like St Aiden who only wanted “a place of quiet to gaze into the face of God” – as wonderful as that sounds. It’s no Gospel unless it lifts me out of my armchair and compels me to fight for the least of these… I don’t know why good Christian folk I know are so silent about terrible things.
I haven’t done my breathing exercises today.
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Tuesday. My back was just so sore today. The day started with news that Angelo had died late yesterday afternoon. I know you shouldn’t have favourites, but he really was one of mine. (He was an anxious man too.) We’d sit together in the lobby and watch the world come and go. The mid-afternoon shift-change is always a carnival of people in and out, all smiles. Hellos and goodbyes. He loved watching the parade of it all. After lunch, I left my desk and wandered down to the chapel, to pray for Angelo and his family, and to pray for my back too. I noticed the purple Advent banners and altar cloth were already in situ ready for Sunday. I had a memory of changing the altar cloth at Clayton Wesley – not a one-person job. I suppose the windows at Clayton will be dressed for Christmas shortly… The banner directly in front of me declared:
“Arise, shine; for your light has come,
And the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.”
As much as I didn’t feel it in that moment, I still love Advent the most. Each Sunday, we listen once more to the familiar stories of how God broke into the lives of Mary and Joseph, Elizabeth and Zechariah. We hear again Simeon’s words as he holds the long-awaited Jesus in his arms: ‘my eyes have seen Your salvation… this light to the Gentiles.’ This Light of the world. This ‘Joy of Heaven to earth come down.’ This season of hope and wonder. I can lean into its promises. Lord, I’ll leave Angelo in Your hands. May he rest in peace and rise in glory. Visit us, Lord, in all of our grieving. (Heal my back and my shoulder and my neck.) Let me also go on in peace… I must do my breathing exercises.
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Wednesday. I arrived home from work tonight in good time to join the Franciscans for online prayer. Someone read the words of Psalm 66 – “Who has held our souls in life: who has not suffered our feet to slip.” I love those words, though the very next verses aren’t so uplifting. Why does that keep happening?
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Thursday, beginning with a trip to the Physio. I said that I’d done the breathing exercises once – that morning. He wasn’t impressed. “Your whole back and neck are so tense and stiff, Olly…” he lamented. I didn’t tell him that I’d also seen the Physio at work the previous day because I couldn’t wait 24 hours. It felt like cheating, for some reason. And I know what he would have said, “if you’d been doing those exercises and stretches…”
Later, I caught up with the son of a resident. He’d learned that morning that his dad was palliative. There were lots of tears. I recalled the Psalm from last night – “Who has held our souls in life.” I tended to this man’s sorrow as the time passed. There was no hurry. I missed evening prayer with the Franciscans, but every moment with this man seemed like praying.
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Friday. I visited the palliative resident whose son’s tears I witnessed. He was sleeping peacefully even though it was raining so hard against the window. I thought of those folks in Gaza being flooded in their tents. What can I do for them? Tomorrow is Holy Communion with the Franciscans, and maybe I’ll put the Christmas tree up. My tenth Christmas living in the same place. For all the changes of the past decade, my home has been a steady source of rest and a place of healing. Why should I have this comfort when house after house in Gaza has been smashed?
I’m tired this afternoon. It will be good to rest this weekend when I can. One of the Lutheran pastors was telling me earlier on how Adam and Eve’s first day comprised of rest and not industry. When I get home, I might first spend some time in the garden. Even if it’s still wet, I won’t mind. The sweet peas are a wonder this year, climbing up into the silver birch. The pea petals and birch catkins are all mixed up in a riot of colour and embrace that I’ve not witnessed in ten springs in this place. If I stay with them long enough, they’ll remind me to breathe.
Olly Ponsonby, November 2025
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Scripture refs. – 1 Kgs 19:5-8, Ps 139:23, Mt 14:22-22, Jn 12:1-8, Mt 25:34-40, Is 60:1, Lk 2:25-32, Ps 66:8.
“Turn full your eyes…” from Lilias Trotter, “Focussed: a story and a song.” Visit liliastrotter.com for more information about her life in ministry
“Our skin is not impervious” taken from “When the Bough Breaks” by Andrea Gibson, in in “Pole dancing to Gospel hymns”, 2008.
St Aiden quote found in “Celtic Daily Prayer: Readings from the Northumbrian Community”
“Joy of Heaven to earth come down” from Love Divine, all loves excelling by Charles Wesley, 1747. Public domain. https://hymnary.org/text/love_divine_all_love_excelling_joy_of_he
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