Catching Your Breath

by Steve Austin

  Shh…

  Two years after I almost died, a car wreck threatened to destroy our marriage. It was September of 2014. My little boy, Ben, was turning three, and Sweet Caroline was about five months old. I had been in recovery, rebuilding my life, for two years. But, sadly, I slipped back into my old routine of pushing, performing, and moving to the point of extreme exhaustion. I was working two jobs and pulling 60-hour weeks with two little ones and my sweet wife at home.

  For some reason, I had borrowed Lindsey’s car that Saturday morning. I was so tired from working till midnight the night before and having to be back by 6:00 AM., the kind of tired that gives coffee the stank eye and laughs in the face of a nap. I only fell asleep for a second, but it was a second too long. The impact of the other car jolted me awake.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. We were covered in debt, and I’d picked up an extra twelve-hour shift that morning to try and make ends meet. The worst part? The insurance agent promptly reported, “Mr. Austin, your auto insurance lapsed three weeks ago.” In my busyness, I had completely forgotten to renew it.

  I called to deliver the bad news to my wife. I felt like all I ever gave her was bad news and a lack of presence. But this was too much. I can still hear her say those heavy words: “I’m taking the kids to Florida for a while until we can figure things out.”

  I hadn’t cried in front of my dad in years, but that day, standing in my parents’ driveway, telling him my marriage might be over, I sobbed. I realized that, in my constant struggle to be good enough, I had neglected the most precious person in my life.

  While my wife was packing her bags for Florida, I started wracking my brain for something I could do to find some semblance of peace for us. I knew I had to do something different. The same old thing just wasn’t working anymore. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

  For me, desperate meant getting really quiet. I spent that Labor Day weekend in silence in a monastery in Cullman, Alabama. I mean, it was quiet AF. I disconnected from everyone and everything I’d been using as a distraction from what was going on inside of me, just like I’d done in the psych ward. But where the psych ward deals with the brain, this trip was for my soul and body.

  In my borrowed cell, my soul found stillness and my body was able to rest. I turned off my phone. I only brought a couple of books, pens, and a journal. If I was ever going to redeem my marriage, I first had to rediscover myself. It was time to get nekkid again.

  This is why Brennan Manning’s words are so powerful: “Silent solitude makes true speech possible and personal. If I am not in touch with my own belovedness, then I cannot touch the sacredness of others. If I am estranged from myself, I am likewise a stranger to others.”28

  I learned that when I’m not in touch with my belovedness, I’m more susceptible to the lie that my worth is found in what I do, create, and give. As much as I wanted to believe I had recovered and was in a great place, I wasn’t in a healthy frame of mind at all. I had worked to have my ego stroked by how well I performed and how loudly the crowd applauded. A weekend of stillness allowed me to realize that and take a step toward healing my marriage. That weekend of silent contemplation reminded me again that I am loved because of who I am, not in spite of it.

  In 8 Habits of Love, my friend Ed Bacon talks about the habit of stillness:

  Life comprises both ordinary and extraordinary moments. When we need to imagine, dream, plan, strategize and nurture ourselves and others, this is hard to achieve when we react to everyday life with anxiety. When we are full of fear, being open-hearted becomes virtually impossible. We are stalled. We cannot grow or find imaginative solutions. Yet, this habitual fear is not always easy for us to recognize. It takes on many masks.29

  Maybe you have three children under the age of five. Perhaps you are convinced your spouse has been wrongly imprisoned. Maybe you’re walking through bankruptcy, divorce, or grieving as you witness a loved one deteriorate before your eyes. Whatever your version of chaos, creating moments of stillness can help you cultivate calm.

  Ed Bacon goes on to say:

  Over the years, I’ve come to view reaching daily stillness the way I view my morning shower and toothbrushing. I spend an hour each morning in stillness, which for me, is my deepest form of praying, and I don’t want to enter my day without this act of spiritual, mental, and emotional hygiene.

  Rev. Bacon is right. Just like a refreshing shower or a cleansing toothbrushing, my soul craves the washing of its inner-sanctum by stillness. Even if you don’t find yourself swept away by the undertow of tragedy, the very chaos of daily life begs for a regular dose of stillness.

  For me, stillness means a trip to the local Catholic church each year on the morning of September 21st, the day I nearly died by suicide. I know very little of the Catholic tradition, but the prayer garden on the church grounds beckons me. As I observe the statue of Mary, the flowers, and the candles, I remember the Biblical story of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. His soul was in chaos and he had to find stillness before the unthinkable next steps we read about in the Gospels.

  As I’m invited into stillness in my own prayer garden, I also remember the day that defined chaos for me. You cannot fully appreciate calm without living through the chaos; the two are intrinsically woven together. It’s why I believe the human journey really is all about death and resurrection. Chaos and calm. It’s all an ebb and flow. And Hope is the anchor that reminds us calm is waiting on the other side of chaos.

  Like Ed, I practice a daily habit of calm. Each morning, I put in my earbuds and turn on my favorite guided meditation app (there are quite a few to choose from). I don’t get stuck on how long I should or shouldn’t meditate—to me it’s about the intention. Sometimes, it’s just a few minutes. Other times, it’s half an hour or more. However long I spend there, I count it a success. I give myself permission to be human in all things.

  If the idea of meditation trips you up, let’s make it simple. If you’re exhausted, stressed, or scattered, the best meditation in the whole world is a damn nap. Close your eyes and shut out all the distractions. Step away from the digital noise of television and social media and get quiet for a while. It is amazing to me just how much a nap can help. When I’m feeling stressed, impatient, or just plain cranky, an hour of shut-eye is often exactly the reset my body needs.

  On, Not Up

  Somehow, we get in our heads that we need to have it together all the time. Is it just me? I tell myself that I must be “up” all the time, but that’s a crock. Anyone who has lived through a difficult time knows that “just choosing joy” doesn’t always do it.

  One piece of tough love my friend Sue has given me a few times during the years is this: when it comes to leadership and life, she says, “You don’t always have to be up, but you always have to be on.” Even when that advice isn’t comforting, it’s true. Whether I’m working as a sign language interpreter, life coach, or speaker, most people don’t care what kind of bad day I’ve had, about my lack of sleep, or even that my dog was just run over (insensitive jerks). They aren’t concerned with whether I am feeling “up,” as long as I am “on”and capable of doing my job.

  In case you haven’t gotten the memo yet, you’re human. As such, your energy and mood will vary from time to time. It’s crucial to give yourself permission to be down sometimes. At the same time, listening to your mood and energy signals will help you know when you need an extra dose of stillness. Sometimes, in order to be “on” when you’re having a tough day or week, you need to prioritize more time to refresh. Remember the woodcutter? When you feel extra grumpy, extra stressed, or extra down, take a look at your schedule, pencil in some quiet time, and go sharpen your axe.

  I love the way stillness takes all the social norms and cultural expectations and turns them upside down. It doesn’t make sense in our got-it-together, keep-it-together world of constantly going, pushing, moving forwar
d, always up, always on. But it does make sense for our bodies, souls, and minds. If we want to be healthy and able to do what really matters, we have to stop and give ourselves permission to listen to our own breath.

  How to Not Get Hit by a Train

  When I was a kid, we learned lots of lessons in threes. For example, if there’s a fire, what do you do? Stop, drop, and roll. Good job. Most sermons in the little Southern Baptist church of my childhood also had three points. I guess it’s easier to remember three than, say, Martin Luther’s 95 Theses.

  One of the most memorable three-point lessons from childhood is what to do when you approach a railroad crossing. Do you remember the rule? Stop, look, and listen. If you don’t want to get hit by a train, these three habits are vital. The results of not following these instructions can be catastrophic. Trains come at us with enormous momentum and if we aren’t paying attention, terrible things can happen.

  During my formative years, I recognized just how powerful trains are. When I was a young boy, Papaw Thompson would load me up in his old, white Datsun pickup with the brown vinyl interior and drive us down to the train track beside Yellowleaf Creek. Papaw would pull the truck onto the gravel access road next to the tracks. He would park near the tiny signal house, raise one finger in the air, and with a childlike sparkle in his eyes, whisper, “Now, you wait right here.”

  No matter how many times I’d seen the trick, I was always amazed at how the train flattened a perfectly good penny. Papaw would place the shiny copper coin on the track while the train was still a good way off, and after the choo-choo rolled over it, the penny would be pressed paper thin.

  That penny was nearly crushed beneath the weight of the locomotive; its shape was forever altered by the relentless smashing of the engine, coal cars, and caboose. And if you don’t stop, look, and listen, a train will treat you the same way. Trains are no respecter of persons.

  When is the last time you stopped, looked, and listened? It can save you from a great deal of trouble. Whether your soul feels clogged, anxiety is squeezing your brain, depression’s black dog is hounding you day and night, or you’re just not sure you can handle the stress much longer, please stop, look, and listen.

  Stop

  Stop performing for the approval fix. Stop trying to live up to the unrealistic expectations of others. Stop trying to keep the world spinning. Remember what Sue says, “The merry-go-round has a motor. All you have to do is get on and ride.”

  Look

  Look around. What do you see? Piles of responsibility and resentment? Loads of busyness? Five-mile-long lines of chores and demanding people? When is the last time you shifted your focus and looked for the beauty in everyday life? When did you last notice the deep blue of your wife’s eyes or the way your husband’s beard is beginning to grey? When did you stop long enough to appreciate your son’s homework or watch your daughter twirl in the backyard like a ballerina? Look around—what are you grateful for?

  Listen

  Listen to the voice beneath the chatter. Stop talking long enough to appreciate the gift of silence. Feeling stuck? Listen to the answers inside of your soul; they’re longing to show you a better way. Ed Bacon refers to stillness as “the level beneath quiet.” It’s the place down in the deepest sea of your soul, where the waves can no longer distort or distract. Get quiet and listen to the voice of God—the voice of Love and Belonging and Peace—in the midst of a life that seems to never slow down.

  Stop striving. Look for goodness. Listen to the truth of your being.

  Life is either a gift or a long series of moments where you hold your breath until the next disaster strikes. I’m choosing to slow down, keep my eyes peeled, and my heart open to the blessing of each ordinary day, believing that I was made for more than just the next trainwreck.

  Returning to Stillness

  From my journal:

  Here I am, sitting in this brown leather recliner, holding a book. I feel the dryness of the pages against my fingers and notice the refreshing air from the ceiling fan, lightly breathing against my skin. The cotton of my shirt brushes against my arms, and I sense the tightness of my shoes on my feet. I can feel the weight of the book in my lap and my coffee cup warming my left palm. Here I am, breathing calmly. Here I am, resting my shoulders, letting go of the tension in my eyebrows and my jaw. Here I am, relaxing into this moment.

  When I get quiet enough, I can hear the little bird singing its song outside on the tree branch. I can listen to the hum of the air conditioner, and I’m pretty sure there’s a drip in my bathroom faucet. Whoever said “silence is golden” was right.

  When is the last time you got quiet for just five minutes? Maybe the thought of meditation overwhelms you. Perhaps you’re like a friend of mine and, because of past trauma, deep breathing techniques freak you out. What if you just sat, closed your eyes, put your feet on the floor, your hands in your lap, and listened? When we become intentionally quiet in the natural world, it allows us to listen to ourselves on a different level. Some might call it a spiritual level. We finally create space to listen to those big questions that are gnawing at our souls. We can hear the dreams, the questions, the fears, the doubts, the desires...but only by getting quiet.

  Reticular What?!

  “You ever heard of the reticular activator?” I was at Sue’s house, checking on her after a recent medical procedure. (Sue and I are sort of like characters from the 90’s sitcom, Home Improvement. I’m Tim Taylor and she’s Wilson, the neighbor on the other side of the fence. Sue is used to my confused looks and mile-long stares as she pontificates about deep and mind-boggling truths of the Universe.

  “The reticular what?!” I asked, my voice an octave higher and full of confusion.

  The Encyclopedia of Neuroscience defines the reticular activating system this way:

  Humans have three sleep and arousal states: waking, asleep (resting or slow-wave sleep), and asleep and dreaming (paradoxical, active, or rapid eye movement sleep). These states are controlled by the reticular activating system located in the mesopons, which interacts with descending reticulospinal and ascending hypothalamic, basal forebrain, and thalamocortical systems.30

  Can we all breathe a collective WTF? Basically, the reticular activator is the part of your brain that notices things.

  Sue went on to tell me about buying her red convertible a few years before. She had never noticed so many red convertibles on the road until she owned one herself. Her reticular activator had subconsciously been weeding out unnecessary information, allowing Sue to focus on driving and getting to her destination. But now that she owned a red convertible of her own, suddenly, it seemed there were many more!

  I don’t notice the hum of my air conditioner the majority of the time. But when it’s time to hit “record” on my next podcast episode, you can bet I know exactly how loud the vent is in my office. Damn reticular activator.

  Stillness sharpens the reticular activator of the soul. As you engage your reticular activator through a regular stillness practice, you hone your ability to notice. And the opposite is true, too: you fine-tune your skills at culling distraction. Coming to stillness, you filter through the white noise of busyness and unnecessary bullshit so you can notice what your soul is trying to tell you. It makes space to allow the truth of your being to grow. It is watering the ground of your soul, allowing goodness and truth and light and calm to grow.

  As I sit in silence, more often than not, a smile curls around my lips and I think this is good. All of this may sound silly to you. Maybe you read these words and think, who cares about your recliner and the hum of a ceiling fan? The ceiling fan is not the point. Wax on, wax off. The purpose of this exercise is to realize how many regular moments we miss every day because we are so busy, trying to get to the next appointment, next meeting, or next event.

  My challenge for you, right now, if at all possible, is to close this book and sit still for five minutes. Do
nothing other than getting quiet and observing. What do you notice? Is it sunshine through the window? Your partner snoring in the next room? The buzz of a fluorescent light fixture above you? Or the rump-a-tum-tum of your heartbeat? Note every single thing you observe for five minutes and when you finish, take a moment to write it all down. Getting quiet in the natural world is a crucial step toward creating calm on the inside.

  ten:

  A Dog Named Dudley

  When will you have a little pity

  for every soft thing

  that walks through the world,

  yourself included?

  —Mary Oliver31

  I spent the first decade of my life in the country. Boss and Nanny owned a large plot of land in rural Alabama and we only lived a couple of miles away. There were always five or six junk cars lined up by the barn. As a kid, I couldn’t figure out why they didn’t just sell them or fix them up, but now I understand: Boss and Nanny grew up just after the Great Depression. There was a lot of fear leftover from those lean years. You never knew what you might need, so you couldn’t get rid of anything. Even if it was rusty enough to give you tetanus from twenty feet away.

  Come to think of it, the whole thing seems a little bizarre now. Boss and Nanny would slice up apples and leave them to dehydrate in the back windows of the cars. Of course, I was a kid, so I didn’t really care. After all, my cousin and I spent long afternoons playing in those old beaters, pretending to be racecar drivers. (Duh! What else would you play in a rusted-out Toyota Celica?) Plus, we had snacks when we wanted them.