Chapter 2: Coming Back to the Breath

The Waiting Room

Bilal is twenty-nine and sitting in the waiting room of an office, ten minutes early for a job interview he very much wants. The chairs are hard and the room is too warm. A clock ticks loudly on the wall. Two other candidates are waiting too, one reading notes, the other staring at the floor.

Bilal's mind is racing. He rehearses his answers, then decides they are wrong and rehearses different ones. He imagines the interviewers frowning. He remembers a mistake he made in an interview last year and feels his face grow hot. His heart is beating fast, his hands are damp and his breathing has become short and high in his chest, though he has not noticed that yet. He looks at the clock. Only two minutes have passed.

Then he remembers something his grandfather, a calm and quiet man who had worked for many years as a carpenter, used to say when Bilal was a boy and could not sleep: "When your head is too full, go down to your breath. It is always there, and it is always now." Bilal feels a little foolish, but he has nothing else to do. He puts both feet flat on the floor, rests his hands on his knees and simply notices his breathing.

It is fast and shallow. He does not try to change it. He just watches. The air comes in, the air goes out. After a few breaths, without any effort on his part, it begins to slow a little, and to drop lower, into his belly. His thoughts are still there, but they are quieter, like a radio in another room. When his name is called, his heart is still beating faster than usual. But he stands up feeling, for the first time that morning, that he is actually in the room.

Why the Breath

Of all the places where we can bring our attention, the breath has a special place in Zen and in many other meditation traditions. There are good reasons for this.

The first reason is that the breath is always with you. You cannot leave it at home or forget it in a drawer. Whether you are in a waiting room, on a bus, in a hospital bed or lying awake at night, the breath is there. This makes it the most portable anchor that exists.

The second reason is that the breath is always now. You cannot breathe yesterday's breath or tomorrow's. Thoughts can travel anywhere in time, back to old regrets and forward to future worries. But the breath happens only in the present moment. When your attention rests on the breath, it rests, at least for that moment, in the present.

The third reason is that the breath sits on the border between what we do automatically and what we do on purpose. Most of the time, we breathe without thinking about it, as we breathe in our sleep. But we can also notice the breath, and we can slow it or deepen it if we choose. In this way, the breath is a kind of bridge between the body, which runs on its own, and the attention, which we can direct.

The fourth reason is that the breath reflects our state. When we are frightened or rushed, the breath tends to become quick and shallow. When we are calm, it tends to become slower and softer. Many people find that by noticing the breath, and sometimes by letting the out-breath become a little longer, the body begins to settle. Research on breathing suggests that slow, gentle breathing can help the body shift away from a state of alarm and toward a state of rest, though how much it helps varies from person to person. Zen does not use the breath mainly as a relaxation technique. But it is not surprising that many people feel calmer when they come back to it.

There is a fifth reason, which is simple but important: the breath is never exactly the same twice. Each breath has its own length, its own texture, its own small pause at the top and the bottom. This means that there is always something fresh to notice, even after years of practice. A person who thinks "I already know what my breath is like" has stopped looking. A person who watches with curiosity finds that every breath is a small new event.

Counting Breaths: A Traditional Method

One of the oldest ways of practising with the breath, used in Zen and in other Buddhist traditions, is counting. In Japanese Zen, it is sometimes called susokukan, which simply means "the practice of counting breaths". It is often the first practice given to beginners, and many experienced practitioners return to it whenever their minds are particularly restless.

The method is very simple. Sit comfortably and let the breath move naturally. On the first out-breath, count silently "one". On the next out-breath, count "two". Continue in this way up to ten. When you reach ten, start again at one. If you lose count, or notice that you have gone past ten to eleven, twelve or twenty, or realize that you have been thinking about something else entirely, simply start again at one.

Almost everyone who tries this for the first time is surprised by how hard it is to reach ten. The mind slips away at three, at five, at seven. A plan for dinner arrives, or a memory, or a judgment: "I am doing well, I have reached six," and then it is gone. This is not a problem. In fact, it is the whole point. Each time you notice that you have lost count and return to one, you are practising returning, the simple act at the heart of this book.

There is no prize for reaching ten. A person who reaches ten again and again has not won anything. A person who keeps losing count at three and keeps starting again has not failed. Both are practising. The counting is not a test. It is a fence that helps you notice when the mind has wandered out of the field.

After some weeks or months of counting, many teachers suggest a slightly different method: simply following the breath, without counting. You notice the breath coming in and going out, as it is, and when the mind wanders, you return. Counting can be like the training wheels on a child's bicycle. It is very helpful at the beginning, and it is always there to come back to on difficult days.

Some people find it helpful to add a word to each breath instead of a number. On the in-breath, they might silently say "in", and on the out-breath, "out". Others simply notice "rising" and "falling" as the belly moves. These are variations on the same idea: giving the mind a light task that keeps it close to the breath and makes it easier to notice when it has drifted away.

Not Controlling, Just Noticing

A common mistake when people begin to practise with the breath is to try to breathe "correctly". They take big, deep breaths, or try to make each breath exactly the same length, or hold their breath at the top. Very soon, they feel strained, dizzy or even more anxious than before.

In Zen practice with the breath, the general advice is to let the breath be natural. You are not trying to breathe in a special way. You are simply paying attention to the breathing that is already happening. If it is short, notice that it is short. If it is long, notice that it is long. If it is rough, notice the roughness. Very often, when we simply watch the breath without interfering, it slows and deepens on its own, as Bilal's did in the waiting room. But even if it does not, the practice is working, because your attention is here.

Where should you feel the breath? Different people find different places easiest. Some feel it most clearly at the nostrils, as a cool touch on the way in and a warm touch on the way out. Some feel it in the chest, rising and falling. Many Zen teachers encourage attention to the lower belly, a little below the navel, where the breath moves the body gently in and out. In Japanese, this area is sometimes called the hara, and many traditional arts treat it as the body's centre of balance. You can experiment and find the place where the breath feels clearest and most restful for you, and then stay with it.

It can help to think of the attention as resting on the breath, rather than gripping it. Imagine a leaf floating on the surface of a slow river. The leaf does not hold the water or push it. It simply rests on it and moves with it. Your attention can rest on the breath in the same way, moving with each breath in and each breath out.

An Old Instruction

The thirteenth-century Japanese Zen teacher Dōgen wrote a short text called Fukanzazengi, which can be translated as "A Universal Recommendation for Seated Meditation". In it, he gives practical instructions for zazen, which we will look at more closely in the next chapter. Among them are a few words about the breath.

In my own plain paraphrase, Dōgen advises the person sitting to keep the mouth closed and to breathe quietly through the nose. Before settling into stillness, he suggests taking one full breath and letting it out completely, and then gently swaying the body from side to side a few times until it comes to rest, upright and steady. After that, the breath is simply allowed to be natural.

What strikes many readers about this instruction is how little it says about the breath. Dōgen does not give elaborate breathing techniques. There is one deep breath to begin, as a kind of clearing, and then the breath is left alone. The emphasis is on posture and on the quality of attention, not on controlling the breath. This fits the spirit of Zen. The breath is not a tool to be worked; it is a living process to be accompanied.

There is an image often used to describe what happens when we sit and breathe in this way, and it helps many beginners. Imagine a glass of water from a muddy pond. If you shake it, the water is cloudy, and you cannot see through it. If you keep stirring it to try to make it clear, it stays cloudy. But if you put it down on a table and leave it alone, the mud slowly settles to the bottom, and the water becomes clear by itself. The mind is a little like this. Trying hard to make it calm often stirs it up more. Sitting still and letting the breath be natural gives it a chance to settle on its own.

In the same short text, Dōgen also points toward a way of sitting in which a person neither chases thoughts nor fights against them. Teachers have often explained his words to mean letting thoughts come and go without following them. We will explore this in more detail in the chapter on thoughts. For now, it is enough to notice that his instructions about the breath and about thinking share the same spirit: do not force, do not grasp, simply be present and let things settle.

Three Lives and the Breath

Esther is eighty-one and lives alone since her husband died. At night, she often wakes at three or four in the morning and cannot get back to sleep. Her mind fills with memories and worries: her health, her children, whether she locked the back door. Her granddaughter teaches her the counting practice. Now, when Esther wakes in the night, she lies on her back, places one hand on her belly and counts her out-breaths from one to ten, starting again whenever she loses count. She does not always fall asleep. But she finds that the long hours in the dark feel less frightening, and on many nights she drifts off to sleep somewhere in the middle of her counting.

Jonah is twelve and plays football for his school team. When a referee makes a decision he thinks is unfair, or when an opponent pushes him, he flares up quickly, and twice he has been sent off for arguing. His coach, who practises meditation, teaches the team a simple routine: when you feel the heat rising, stop, look at the grass and take two slow breaths, letting the out-breath be longer than the in-breath. Jonah practises it in training, then in matches. He still feels the anger. But the two breaths give him a moment in which he can choose not to shout. His coach notices and tells him that this is a kind of strength.

Mariana is thirty-seven and works in a busy customer service centre, answering one call after another. Some callers are friendly; others are angry and rude. By lunchtime she often feels tense and drained, and the tension carries into the next call. She begins a small practice: between each call, before pressing the button for the next one, she takes one conscious breath and feels her feet on the floor. It takes only a few seconds. She finds that it helps her leave each call behind before the next begins, like closing one door before opening another. At the end of the day, she feels a little less carried away by the worst calls.

None of these three people sat for long periods on a meditation cushion. Esther practised in bed, Jonah on a football field and Mariana at her desk between calls. Yet each of them used the same simple anchor, the breath, to come back to the present moment in the middle of a difficult time. This is one of the great strengths of breath practice. It goes wherever you go.

When the Breath Is Not Comfortable

For most people, paying gentle attention to the breath is pleasant or at least neutral. But it is important to know that for some people, it is not. People who have asthma or other breathing difficulties, people who experience panic attacks and people who have been through frightening experiences involving their breath may find that focusing on breathing makes them feel more anxious, not less.

If this is true for you, please do not force yourself. There are many other anchors you can use instead. You can rest your attention on the feeling of your feet on the floor, the weight of your body on the chair, the touch of your hands in your lap or on your knees, or the sounds in the room around you. You can also keep your eyes open and rest your gaze on a simple object, such as a plant or a candle. Zen practice is about returning to the present moment, and the breath is only one door into it.

It is also wise to avoid breathing exercises that involve holding the breath for long periods or breathing very fast, unless a qualified teacher who knows your health is guiding you. The practices in this book use only natural breathing and, at most, a gently lengthened out-breath. If you have a medical condition that affects your breathing or your heart, and you are unsure whether a practice is right for you, ask your doctor.

And if, while practising with the breath, you ever notice feelings of panic or distress that do not settle, stop the practice, open your eyes, look around the room and name a few things you can see. Move your body. Talk to someone. There is no need to push through. You can come back to the practice another day, perhaps with a different anchor, or with the help of someone experienced.

Practical Steps

First, find your breath several times a day. Choose a few regular moments, such as waking up, sitting down to eat and getting into bed, and simply notice three breaths. You do not need to change anything. Just notice.

Second, try counting for five minutes. Once a day, sit comfortably and count your out-breaths from one to ten, starting again whenever you lose count. Do this for five minutes at first. If it feels good, extend it slowly.

Third, let the breath be natural. Resist the urge to breathe deeply or perfectly. Your task is to watch the breath, not to manage it. If it settles by itself, enjoy that. If it does not, that is fine too.

Fourth, find your favourite place. Experiment with feeling the breath at the nostrils, the chest and the lower belly. Choose the place where it feels clearest and most restful, and use that as your usual anchor.

Fifth, use the breath in difficult moments. When you feel rushed, angry or anxious, try two or three slow breaths with a slightly longer out-breath. Like Jonah on the football field, you may find that this creates a small space in which you can choose what to do next.

Sixth, use another anchor if you need to. If attention to the breath feels uncomfortable for you, use your feet, your hands or the sounds around you instead. The anchor is less important than the returning.

A Short Practice: Counting to Ten

This practice takes five to ten minutes. You can do it sitting on a chair, on a cushion on the floor or, if you need to, lying down.

Sit in a way that lets your back be upright but not stiff. If you are on a chair, place both feet flat on the floor and sit a little forward, so that your back is not leaning on the chair. Rest your hands on your thighs or in your lap. Let your eyes either close gently or rest, half open, on the floor about a metre in front of you.

Take one full breath in through your nose, and let it out slowly and completely through your nose or mouth. Then let the breath return to its own natural rhythm. Notice where you feel it most clearly.

On the next out-breath, count silently "one". Let the breath come in naturally. On the following out-breath, count "two". Continue up to ten. Then start again at one. Keep the counting light, like a whisper inside the mind, not a loud announcement.

At some point, probably quite soon, you will notice that your mind has wandered. You may be planning, remembering, imagining or judging. You may have lost the count or gone past ten. When you notice this, do not scold yourself. Simply say silently, "Wandering," let the thought go and start again at one. Each time you do this, you are doing the practice well.

When your time is up, stop counting and simply sit for a few more breaths, noticing how you feel. Then open your eyes fully, if they were closed, move your hands and feet gently and return to your day. Try to carry a little of the stillness into the next thing you do.

You may find it helpful to use a gentle timer, so that you do not keep checking the clock. Choose a soft sound rather than a loud alarm, so that the end of the practice is not a shock.

Questions People Often Ask

"Why count only the out-breaths?" Counting the out-breath is a traditional method, and many people find it calming, because the out-breath is often the part of the breath where the body naturally relaxes. But some teachers suggest counting both the in-breath and the out-breath, or counting only the in-breath. There is no single correct way. The counting is simply a support for attention. Choose the method that helps you notice when you have wandered.

"Is it a problem if I fall asleep?" Not a serious one. Many people, especially when they are tired, fall asleep the first few times they practise. If it happens often, it may be a sign that you need more rest, which is useful information in itself. You can also try practising at a time of day when you are more awake, sitting more upright or keeping your eyes slightly open. In Zen practice, the aim is to be relaxed and alert at the same time, which takes some time to learn.

"How long should I practise each day?" A few minutes of real, daily practice is more valuable than a long session now and then. Many people begin with five minutes a day and slowly extend to ten or twenty. It helps to practise at the same time each day, so that it becomes part of your routine, like brushing your teeth. The length matters less than the regularity and the gentleness.

"Can I practise with the breath while doing other things?" Yes, and this is one of its great advantages. You can notice your breath while waiting in a queue, walking, washing dishes or listening to someone speak. This is sometimes called informal practice, to distinguish it from formal sitting. Both are valuable. Formal sitting is like practising scales on a musical instrument: it builds the skill in a quiet setting. Informal practice is like playing music in daily life: it brings the skill into the places where you actually need it.

Chapter Summary

The breath is a special anchor for attention because it is always with you, it always happens in the present, it sits on the border between automatic and chosen action and it reflects your state. Many people find that gentle attention to the breath helps the body settle, though Zen uses it mainly as a way of returning to the present.

Counting out-breaths from one to ten, and starting again whenever you lose count, is a traditional Zen method. The point is not to reach ten, but to practise noticing and returning. The breath is left natural, not controlled, and the attention rests on it lightly. Dōgen's instructions mention only one full breath at the start, then natural breathing. If attention to the breath is uncomfortable, other anchors work just as well.

In the next chapter, we look at the practice in which the breath has its most traditional home: sitting still for a few minutes in a simple, stable posture.