Reviewed by Nancy Eichhorn
Grainy scenes filter from ancient memory caches to conscious narrative recall:
I’m chasing a gentle tide rolling in and out, somewhere off the Jersey shore, when an exuberant wave grabs me. It’s supersized and supercharged—no, I didn’t see it coming. It tumbles me right then left, then smashes me up and down. I claw my way back to what I think is the surface, all the while gagging for air and sucking in salt water.
I hold my breath when the doctor tells me to, so I won’t feel any pain as he injects a long needle into my arm.
I’m confused, wheezing and gasping for air—the whistle in my lungs as I try to inhale is foreign. It’s the first spring after my fiancé was killed in a motorcycle accident. My father calmly says, “Oh, you have asthma.” The hypothesis? Grief-induced.
Holding my breath, having the air knocked out of me, losing the ability to breathe when the love of my ‘young’ life died. Not breathing in whatever iteration allowed me to detach from life and not feel anything.
Inhale/Exhale
I had never given much thought to past experiences that influenced my present-day breathing patterns until I read Jessica Dibb’s breath biography in her recently released book, Breathwork and Psychotherapy: Clinical Applications for Healing and Transformation. I realized that I frequently hold my breath in uncomfortable situations, physical or emotional, blocking any impending pain and suffering. Yet the rational cognitive part of me knows that it’s not true—it’s a myth my brain’s recordings cling to and reinforce by demanding extended pauses in airflow. I know air seeps in and out despite my urge to suppress any in- or exhalations, otherwise I’d be dead.
From Past to Present
Breathing, something everyone does who’s alive, is coming to the forefront in psychotherapeutic settings. It has been the crown jewel in many cultural/spiritual practices for centuries (i.e., India’s yogic traditions, Qigong, Tai Chi, ancient Egyptian practices, Chinese philosophy and medicine, Taoism, Judaism, Christian and Russian Orthodox traditions, and Jewish mysticism, to name a few that Jessica discusses). Physicians have been concerned about our ability to breathe, whether it is related to our lungs or to other organs involved in the breathing process (also discussed in this book).
As far as I can recall, no one discussed breathing during my graduate school years. We discussed body awareness, somatic focusing, and pendulation (a brief point to note), but not how our breath can bring us into our body to then explore what we sense in a particular space or time. Not a negative, just a point: back then, breathwork was not as prominent as it is today.
As of this writing, I have recently received articles involving breathwork for potential publication in Somatic Psychotherapy Today. I see that colleagues are offering workshops and presentations on breathwork, and Norton Publications sent me Jessica’s new book. I can safely say that breathwork is trending.
When I started reading Jessica’s book, I had no idea of the depth and breadth of conscious breathwork, or the practical and essential skills and tools that Therapist-Breathworkers acquired during their training. Jessica’s personal practices, extensive studies, life experiences, and teaching history span decades, cross oceans, and dive into the inner reaches of science/neuroscience, spirituality, and psychotherapy. She’s written a comprehensive compendium that’s part textbook, part training guide, part personal memoir, and part invitation to experience the life-altering existence we can achieve when we incorporate breathwork into our daily lives.
I appreciated her ability to demonstrate in writing that breathing is indeed an active movement, as she notes: “Breathing is the verb at the substrate of all other verbs of human experience” (p. 299).
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Photo credits: wave, Manuela Milani from Pixabay; vaccination, Anke Sundermeier from Pixabay; Girl holding breath, BABI from Unsplash
