From Dust to Breath

Inhale: I am from dust. 

Exhale: I return to dust. 

This is a breath prayer that appeared in the Lenten devotional I’m using this year. As I’ve practiced it in my office, while making lunch and loading the dishwasher, and in line at the grocery, I’m reminded of just how momentary life is. After all, I started as dust – you did too! 

We are all here for but a brief instant in the big scheme of things. The time we “have” is now. This moment. This moment. This moment. This breath. 

And. And with every inhale and exhale, I think about the time between those breaths. Not the momentary time, but the life lived kind of time. The places where our lives are raw or bumpy or challenging. Where waiting for something to shift seems interminable. The places where time is fleeting – watching an infant grow into a toddler and then a preschool child and beyond. The time when a long-awaited opportunity or experience has finally arrived and then seems to be suddenly over. Those times seem to fly by. 

I am from dust. 

I return to dust. 

This also makes me think about the first and last breaths we all took and will eventually take. 

I think of my parents being in the room when I took my first breath. Of that very first, startled outcry. I think of being in the room when my sister Lisa took her last breath. How powerful it was to be with her even in what was also a terrible last moment. 

My breath, your breath, a loved one’s breath – inhale and exhale – the moment of which keeps us moving and having our being in the world. What a privilege it is to have the experience of breathing with someone. Listening to that first, life-breath moment of a newborn. The comfort of hearing someone breathing beside you in the night. The peaceful rhythm of breath in rest. Or the active sounds of breath in a workout or while playing a musical instrument or hiking in the wilderness. 

Then, there is the last breath. 

Heard in a quiet hospital or bedroom. What follows is a deepening silence along with the realization that the one who was just a moment ago, breathing, is now gone forever. The person you love is returning to dust. 

I am from dust. 

I return to dust. 

It doesn’t matter how old you or they are when your loved one dies, they are your precious loved one. And their death has brought grief home to you. Grief is something all its own and is filled with opportunities for reflection. What did that person mean to you? What did they inspire in you, teach you, help you understand? What legacies did your loved one leave behind? What meaning are you finding in their life and death? What did they teach you about living a full life? 

Here’s the thing. I think when those closest to us die, we are also called into reflecting on our own mortality. As poet Mary Oliver writes “Tell me, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life.” In the knowledge that I will return to dust, am I living my life with love, integrity, meaning? Am I living my life understanding that my time is finite? Do I live recognizing that I have but one wild and precious life? 

Journal your own response to these questions. What thoughts, ideas, intentions would you like to set in this season of your life? If you are mourning a loss or losses, what support, encouragement or listening to you need to reconnect with your own wild and precious life? Stay curious, readers.