Book Review: One Breath at a Time, by J. Dana Trent

I like the subtitle of J. Dana Trent’s new book, One Breath at a Time: A Skeptic’s Guide to Christian Meditation. I know that I am not the only person in the universe who does not enjoy being told what’s good for her. I am also suspicious of other people’s enthusiasm for new and exciting activities that will change your life, deepen your spirituality, and improve your skin. The fact that the author of this introduction to meditation as a thoroughly Christian and very useful practice is on board with such scepticism is the first plus, in my book (pun intended).

I might still have resisted, but I love the author, and I really enjoy receiving Advance Reader Copies of books, which Upper Room Books kindly provided electronically for the purposes of this review.

It helped that I had read an advance chapter several weeks ago, and recognized that Dana Trent is a genuine fellow traveler on the “yeah, right” train. She has had her own share of false starts on spiritual and meditative practices, including one infamous meditation app voiced by a relaxation tormentor known ever after as “Mr Villain Narrator.” Trent is not offering us this meditation guide as the answer to all woes, but because in the midst of grief, chaos, migraines, and joy, she is searching as hard as any of us for some connection, some anchor, some God that can hold us when we can sometimes barely hang on.

This is meditation for real life.

Trent is not asking for much. In fact, she insists that we begin with no more than three minutes of meditation at a time – less if necessary. In a typically reassuring passage, she writes

Meditation practice is not another to-do to add to our daily lists but a way of life. … This new way of life doesn’t require a total upheaval, remodel, or demolition. It simply starts with a beginner’s mind and a longing to connect with God, one breath at a time.

“A longing to connect with God, one breath at a time.” As I commented on first reading, there are those moments when you don’t know how hungry you are for something before it is set in front of you on a plate.

Beyond personal experience, Trent offers some solid history from ancient traditions, the life of Jesus, the desert fathers and mothers, and beyond. She explores the proven physiological effects of deep breathing and physical centering, especially as an antidote to our increasingly-proven and less than healthy addictions to smart personal devices (which are also useful, ironically, for setting timers for bursts of meditation). She debunks some of the Christian myths about the dangers of meditation (including empty minds as the devil’s playground – she doesn’t advocate empty-headedness, anyway). But she is always present, in her research, practice, and sympathetic companionship on the road to “Ok, let’s give it a try. What have we got to lose?”

Those chapters of set-up are not just preamble. They are not only making a sound and solid case for meditation, but they become part of the process of readying body and mind by opening up avenues for curiosity and a questing spirit that, by the time we reach the practice, is eager to stop and get going.

The structure feels familiar. In five sets of eight days, Trent moves us slowly and intentionally through breathing, opening up, reading scripture, allowing ourselves to be changed (conversion), to devotion. It is easy to see why she recommends, at least in these first forty days, taking the practices in order, and only after we have worked through them to choose the one that hooks our bodies and souls most firmly, recognizing that each will have its season.

I only read the book yesterday, so I haven’t worked through the forty days of practice yet. Maybe I’ll check back with you when I’m a few weeks in, but for now, this sceptic is going to take three minutes to start meditating, one breath at a time. See you on the other side.

J. Dana Trent’s One Breath at a Time: A Skeptic’s Guide to Christian Meditation is available for preorder from Upper Room Books (30% preorder discount with the code PRESALE 30), or through Amazon

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The widow’s might

what if the widow’s

mite was hope, and she spent all

she had to live on

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Olive branches over ordnance

Before we left, I put away the sewing machine, picked up pins, gave the empty cotton reels to the cats for toys, kept the leftover, little strips of orange fabric because, you know, they might be useful for something, cleared off the dining room table and set the chairs back in their places, ready for reunion, festival, feast.

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We travelled to a region renowned for its unresolved strife, the difficult rifts of generations, the generations of Adam, Abel, Cain. We travelled through a city besieged by its own internal tensions, although you wouldn’t know it from the olive groves that seem to outlive eternity, offering their weary-wise branches to pigeons and pilgrims.

Back home, there were no more olive groves, and instead of fresh bread, first I rolled across our dining table fresh orange fabric, pulled out the pins. They spill and scatter like hidden ordnance, spread across our domestic landscape, ready to do damage, draw blood, vandalize lives.

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The olive trees, ancient and observant, hearing the blood that cries out from the land, whisper that the answer to Cain’s crime cannot be to take the hoe from his hand and hand him an AR-15.

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What will we do?

The sorry truth is that we will not vote anti-semitism out of existence tomorrow. We will not unseat racism, which has settled its bones so comfortably into the fabric of our national couch. We will not disabuse the abuser of his notion of his own superiority, so fragile, set to a hair trigger. We will not uninvent the gun, nor unwind its evolution into the artificial intelligence it has become, writing its own code into our disrupted DNA.

We will not, in a moment, put down the mighty from their thrones and lift up the lowly; fill the hungry with good things on the expense accounts of the rich.

We will do what we can. We participate in one another’s futures. So we will offer our presence, our presence of mind, our best efforts to love one another in word, in deed, by statute. So we will vote: if nothing else, it disturbs the proud in the conceits of their heart. We vote; we must, to heal the sick, bless the meek, to comfort those who mourn.

We will not save the world tomorrow. Who, after all, do we think that we are?

So what will we do today, today, and today as citizens of the kingdom of heaven, to do justice, to love kindness, to walk humbly with our God; to walk in love as Christ loved us; to dedicate our hearts, minds, souls, and strength to the constitution and covenant of God?


Photo via Episcopal Evangelists on Facebook

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Inspire

Why wait for inspiration when
before the breath that catches on creation,
shucks life into eternity, expires
before the face of God aspired
the Spirit had already taken wing,
hefting feathers into flight,
breaching the horizon of the first Word,
advent of the night.

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We talked about this

Shackled to the shadows
of a brutalist building, words
barely grazing our lips,
we talked about this.

Our breath stirred the air,
that sabbath exhalation
at the end of creation;
the wordless sigh of God.

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Why I take pictures of cats

Above the Monastery in Petra, signs direct visitors to some of the best views. “Best View in Petra,” boasts one. “Best Panorama,” cries another, like street vendors selling their wares. One simply shouts, “VIEW.”View above the Monastery, Petra That one had moved since last time, as had its little tea tent, quiet two years ago except for the few of us and a kitten. Abandoned now, it stood on the brink with a clear view of the cliffs below.

We scrambled instead towards the Best View in the World.

It was a very good view. There was also, of course, a small cat.

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“Her name is Shakira,” the young woman told us. “She’s pregnant. Here, come and have some tea.”

We sat in the tent on the mountaintop drinking tea and watching with Shakira’s person as the rest of the tourists milled about, came and went, viewing the view, seeing the sights. We talked about people and places we knew.

Shakira hung about, familiarly.

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Shakira 2016

“You know,” I said, “she looks a lot like the kitten I met two years ago there,” pointing to the abandoned hilltop VIEW. We looked at one another: Shakira, her person, and me.

I pulled out my phone, found a photo marked, “Petra View Cat.”

We looked again: Shakira, her person, me. It was the same cat. Shakira’s person said, “Look at the date!” It was the same day, two years removed. We laughed. What were the chances?

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Shakira 2018

We left as old friends. “I’ll have to come back and see the kittens,” I said. “Will you come back soon?” she asked. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Do me a favour,” Tamam said; “take my phone down the hill with you and drop it off with the guy in the cafe. It needs charging.” So on the way down a hill a few thousand miles from home, I found Ibrahim and dropped off a stranger’s phone, speaking the names with ease, as though we knew one another, because of the connection of a cat remembered, recognized, revisited, reviewed.

Shakira (Tamam)

 

 

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Trust

Passport, wallet, even my shoes were safely stored in the back of the jeep whose tailgate receded down the sand dunes and was buried from sight. We were alone in the desert. A man whose last name we didn’t know, whom we had met last night, pointed out a narrowing canyon and said, “Walk that way. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

We took refuge in the cool shadows of the red rock, followed it down the ancient and fading memory of a waterfall, stepped with rubbling boulders, to fresh sand, undisturbed. Birdsong, spare and echoing, lit our way past the trees, green and astonishing, growing in the heart of the desert.

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Dead Sea Prayer

Floating in brine designed

not for propagating

but for pickling;

Suspended between peace

and petrification, love

and devotion.

When will your waters break

afresh, bringing a new creation

to its first astonished breath?

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Morning prayer

This morning, I fed the cat,
bagged the trash, wiped the kitchen
counter of crumbs, relics really;
raked the leaves, mowed the grass.

A rabbit, startled by the
gas-powered scythe scuttered,
white tail exposed,
exiting garden right.

I lit a fire. It smouldered
only, breathing smoke,
heaving ashes into air,
unspeakable particles of prayer.

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