I am what you might call a Type A personality. I multitask, make lists, plot pre-emptive strikes against household shortages. (“But we’re not out of diapers,” my husband says as I’m on my way out the door on what I have deemed an emergency diaper-acquisition quest. “We will be,” I say, Yoda-like. “We will be.”)
I’ve always been this way, which I guess is why my mother often finds it necessary to try to slow my hectic pace. When my voice, in the middle of reciting my to-do list, starts to escalate into the range only audible to dogs, she puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Breathe,” she says. I do—and feel instantly calmer, happier, more sane.
We all need to pause for a deep breath more often. As the redheaded clown wisely said two or three marketing campaigns ago, “You deserve a break today,” and I don’t mean the kind that involves special sauce and health risks worthy of a documentary. So stop the planning, the food preparation, the gift-buying, the never-ending household chores, and treat yourself to one of these ways of putting some peace back into your piece of the world.
Breath
Because my mom always knows best (and because it’s the easiest method I know), I’ll start by taking her advice. Deep breathing is one of the simplest ways to combat stress—it’s free, it’s natural and you can do it anywhere. I find an easy exercise: I give myself over to 10 minutes of deep breathing, inhaling through my nose for a slow four-count, feeling the air enter my lungs from the bottom up. When they are fully inflated, I hold my breath for three seconds, then exhale slowly through my mouth, releasing air from the top of my lungs to the bottom. (For best results, stand or sit upright and push the stomach out as you inhale. Try it: You’ll see that it’s counterintuitive.)
In the quest for interior quiet, this is a good place to start, because deep breathing is a component of almost every relaxation technique, and even if you only get as far as breathwork, your state of mind will be significantly improved.
I try pairing my new breathing expertise with progressive muscle relaxation (tensing, then relaxing individual groups of muscles until you’re as limp as a noodle) in an effort to graduate to the relaxation response, a method discovered by the ancients and defined scientifically by Herbert Benson, a professor of medicine at Harvard. He links this state of deep relaxation to a slowed heartbeat and reduced oxygen consumption.
I’m not sure that’s my goal, so I stick with the breathing. I feel better already.
Bodywork
Massage is a no-brainer for the alleviation of stress and one of my favorite ways to unwind, but this time, instead of my usual Swedish massage, I’ve booked a shiatsu session at GINGER BAY.
Developed in Japan, shiatsu is a pressure-point massage performed over the clothes, designed to stimulate the “meridians” of the body through which energy (chi) flows.
According to my therapist, shiatsu tends to make the recipient feel relaxed but not wrung out and sleepy as one might feel after a traditional massage. She’s right. Though I drop off momentarily near the end of the session—something I’ve only ever done while experiencing shiatsu’s cousin, reflexology (a type of acupressure that involves acupoints on the feet)—I do feel quietly alert afterward, and it’s a bonus that I’m not slathered in oil.
I’m calm enough that upon finding indigo spatter deposited in the center of my car’s hood by a passing bird, I think, “What a pretty color.”
Taking the shiatsu idea a step further, I decide to try Watsu, a trademarked name for an underwater shiatsu treatment used not only for the reduction of stress but also to treat injuries, chronic pain and even psychological problems.
The only practitioner of Watsu in St. Louis, Kathleen Christ (rhymes with “wrist”) conducts treatments in a pool in her basement. Sounds weird, right? It is, at first. She bills the facility as the ST. LOUIS AQUATIC HEALING CENTER, but it’s actually an unassuming house on the corner of Rocky Drive and Emerson Road, within splashing distance of I-270. My tentative knock yields a warm welcome from Christ herself, who asks whether I had any trouble finding the place and escorts me to the lower-level treatment area, where I change into my swimsuit, drape a towel over my exposed bits and follow her to the pool room.
Allowing a scantily clad stranger to cradle my similarly suited body in a warm pool is a deeply embarrassing prospect, even for someone who, as a rule, barely lets the door click shut before stripping off her clothes and vaulting onto the massage table. The discomfort sticks with me through Christ’s verbal introduction to Watsu. As she explains what she’ll be doing, I try to figure out whether bending my knees or standing with my legs spread apart is the least awkward way to keep the water in the 4-foot-deep pool at neck level.
As we begin, I start to relax, but I’m fighting the urge to helpfully move my body in the ways in which I think she wants it to go rather than allowing myself to become, as Christ suggests, “like a noodle—or, better yet, asleep.”
I get over it. Soon I’m enjoying the warm embrace of the water and Christ’s firm-yet-gentle hold. She stretches me, works the muscles in my back, drags and pushes and swirls me through the water until my tension has liquefied and I would swear that my limbs are moving bonelessly, underwater tendrils awash in a weightless sea.
I leave in a state of pruney relaxation so deep that I forget to pay.
Meditation
I’ve always liked the idea of being a person who meditates, a feeling quite distinct from the urge to actually meditate. It’s similar to my desire to be a polyglot without actually conjugating any verbs.
I can picture it already: me in blissful, silent contemplation, my hectic thoughts stilled, my coursing blood cooled.
I decide to take a class offered by the ST. LOUIS INSIGHT MEDITATION GROUP (which, needless to say, is focused on insight meditation, designed to calm the mind and allow the practitioner to live more fully “in the moment”). Classes are held every Sunday night at Big Bend Yoga in Webster Groves.
I pick the perfect Sunday. It has been raining steadily all day, and I’ve always found rain restful. My household is back to normal after a weeklong visit from my in-laws. I am ready to relax.
My dozen or so fellow meditators fan out in front of the instructor, who asks whether anyone needs instructions before we begin. I keep my face arranged in what I hope is a mask of serenity, then dart my eyes back and forth to see whether anyone else is as clueless as I am. Nope. Alas, the moment at which I could have raised my own hand has passed, and it looks as if I’m up Zen creek without a paddle.
Before we begin, the instructor explains that we will sit silently for 40 minutes, after which we will do some walking meditation. I settle in, close my eyes and concentrate on breathing deeply and clearing my mind. Within what I estimate to be 30 seconds, 40 minutes suddenly seems like a very, very long time.
Clearing my mind (something I’ve already tried to do in yoga class, with only limited success), proves futile. In fact, with no activity to occupy it, my mind is free to race unencumbered, flitting from one topic to the next with such gleeful abandon that I can’t concentrate on the breathing at all—I’m forgetting to hold it after the inhale, rushing the exhale. I feel my shoulders creeping up to my ears as my breathing continues to frustrate me. My left leg goes to sleep, and I stealthily change positions, aware as I do so (I have my eyes slitted like a kid’s during the dinner prayer) that no one else seems to be having the same trouble remaining motionless.
The walking meditation is better, and it comes with instructions. We are to walk slowly, in parallel lines, at our own speed toward the center of the room, then turn and walk back to the wall. We are to coordinate our steps with our breath (foot up, inhale; foot down, exhale). This is actually quite relaxing. After a couple of laps, I begin to feel I must know what it is to be a dryad, or, more accurately, an Ent, one of J.R.R. Tolkien’s sentient, ambulatory trees.
After the walking meditation, we sit again for a discussion, in the wake of the destruction wrought by hurricanes Katrina and Rita, about suffering and compassion. We are asked to share stories about suffering we have experienced or observed and discuss the nature of the relationship between the sufferer and the compassionate observer. Several of us speak. I listen, growing depressed.
When we finish, I do not feel relaxed. I feel mentally burdened. I conclude that meditation takes more work than I imagined.
Or perhaps it’s just that meditation takes too big a commitment. The whole point of my search for ways to calm my jittery psyche to the point that I might someday be able to sit quietly for more than five minutes without springing up, wild-eyed, looking for something to do is that I want to do less.
When I call Christ to sheepishly deliver my credit-card number, I tell her that after trying meditation, I’ve concluded that I’m more a fan of effortless relaxation methods such as Watsu and massage. She is quick to comfort me: “After all, Tibetan monks practice meditation for 20 years and still aren’t perfect at it. And really, with the way our society is, if you’re going to do something that takes a lot of discipline, that’s just another stress.”
Exactly. It’s the lust for immediate gratification that I’m forever pontificating against: I want to relax, and I want to relax now—and I don’t want to have to work at it.
Yoga
I’ve always found yoga relaxing, but not when I’m doing it. I sleep like an enchanted princess the night after a class, but when I’m in the process of trying to contort and balance my body, serenity is often elusive. So this time I’ve opted for a class called “restorative yoga” offered by BIG BEND YOGA every Friday evening. I could use a little restoration.
Whereas a typical yoga class might consist of dozens of poses, or asanas, in fairly quick succession, the restorative class includes fewer than 10, which means a minimum of talk and movement by the instructor. When she does speak, she says lovely things, things such as “Take your time; there’s no hurry” and “Would you like me to cover you with a blanket?”
Yoga is never supposed to be competitive, but in a more advanced class you sometimes get the sense that props meant to assist the participants with poses—blankets, blocks, straps—are, well, for wimps. Not so with restorative yoga. Before entering the studio I’m loaded up with six blankets, an eye pillow scented with lavender, and a strap, which will be used to eliminate all vestiges of discomfort or effort from the asanas we will inhabit.
Normally I don’t have time to think about much other than my poses, but in the relaxed atmosphere of restorative yoga, in which we hold each pose for a few minutes, my mind is again untethered. In one five-second period I go from trying to remember the difference between oceanview and oceanfront rooms to pondering Miranda’s long struggle against, and eventual surrender to, her love for Steve to whether I should pick up Vietnamese or pizza for dinner.
But despite my racing thoughts, I feel quite calm. My thoughts aren’t as manic as usual, and they’re frequently stilled by the instructor’s encouragement to “invite” our minds to focus on counting our breaths.
The class is all about comfort and relaxation. We’re urged to forego a change of pose if we’d prefer not to move, and we’re told to make sure that we’re comfortable. I am. Bolstered by the props, my poses make me feel as if I’m suspended in water: nothing straining, nothing hurting, nothing feeling the pull of gravity.
As the class comes to a close, I’m relaxed, I feel physically great and … I’m happy.
Retreats
It’s difficult, I’m finding, to make that feeling last. No matter how stress-free I feel after my various treatments and classes, I’m all wound up again by the time I’ve battled traffic, picked up groceries and made it home.
What I need is a real retreat, someplace I can boost my relaxation quotient high enough that it endures.
Reluctantly deciding against a weeklong retreat, I make do with a visit and a tour of the newest health-and-sanity getaway in the area, HEALING STONE RETREAT & SPA. Located just outside Hermann, Mo., about 90 minutes from downtown St. Louis, Healing Stone opened in October, offering weeklong health retreats, as well as suites for bed & breakfast guests.
A huge McMansion-style house majestically overlooking a peaceful view of fields and trees, Healing Stone is not what I imagine when I think of a retreat. When I first heard about it, it was calling itself the Healing Stone Ashram, which made its appearance even stranger; an ashram is a spiritual sanctuary that often involves gardening and building upkeep and is devoid of such niceties as phones, televisions and marble bathtubs. At Healing Stone, elaborate suites are available for B&B guests, and retreaters stay in the relatively spare (but still opulent by ashram standards) retreat room.
Each day starts with a yoga class, followed by an extended hike or bike ride along the nearby Katy Trail. After lunch there’s a one-hour massage, then free time during which you may enjoy the hot tub, sauna, steam room, weights or exercise equipment. Evening holds more yoga or classes on such topics as healthy cooking or meditation.
The program sounds lovely, and the location and scenery couldn’t be better, but I can’t get past the dŽcor. How could I relax in a place that considers a full-grown stuffed tiger an appropriate adornment for a bedroom? (“Is that thing real?” I ask, horrified. “It was,” my guide replies.)
If I were a practitioner of tai chi, I’d have another, more appropriate option: the weekend tai chi retreats held annually by local psychologist and corporate coach Tom Krapu at the MERCY CENTER. Designed to generate “deep relaxation, greater mental clarity and increased life focus,” the retreats are for those experienced in the yang short form of tai chi and are conducted entirely in silence, save for an orientation and post-retreat debriefing.
The truth is, I can’t spare the time for one of these relaxing retreats, and only rarely can I squeeze in a yoga class or massage. But whenever I need to relax, I still hear my mother’s voice in my head. “Breathe,” she says—and I do.
