Just Keep Breathing
by Christopher Robbins, November 2024
Some made last minute preparations. Others nestled under their homespun blankets. I took a mental snapshot of the scene. I sat on a foldable makeshift mattress on the floor of a small gathering hall adjacent to the hotel lobby. Thin beams of sunlight cut through covered window frames casting long shadows across a tin ceiling. The Brandon Inn (founded in 1769) is a red and white brick hotel grizzled with New England folklore. Having hosted these workshops in years past, the staff was intimately familiar with our tomfoolery. Milling about the dimly-lit space were Lenny and Elizabeth Gibson, founders of Dreamshadow. Now in their mid-70’s, they shared a lifelong passion for modern psychology and the power of healing. Over the last three decades, they had become legends in the field of Holotropic Breathwork. With pride and no prejudice, they would preside over our ceremony today.
Despite having months to mentally prepare for the workshop, I was still a bit restless. I was well versed in the program, knew how it worked. But I also knew this kind of knowing was fruitless. Changing the Ph in our bodies using our breath may be perfectly safe, but it’s also wildly unpredictable. Anything is possible—from physical exhaustion to life affirmation. Nevertheless, experienced practitioners know that assumptive attitudes are not welcome. Expectations are best checked at the door.
In my wait, I searched for more courage and tempered my curiosity. How would I feel? Where would I go? What would I see? The fact is, I was here to breathe myself into an exceptional state of consciousness and therefore had every right to be on edge.
As the still room gave way to faint sounds of music, I knew the time had come. Time to flush all pretense of what was or could be. Time to relinquish control, to trust the process. I flashed two thumbs up at my sitter. For the next three hours, he would serve as the guardian of my gate. I slipped on the eye mask, lay on my back and assumed the position. Like a stretched white canvas, waiting with anticipation for the brush strokes to begin.
A gentle cue echoed across the room, “As you deepen your breath, begin to notice your body.” I placed one hand on my chest and the other on my belly. The intensity of my breathing followed the increasing volume of music. Loud provocative sounds and eclectic rhythms filled the room. Deep breath in. Then out. In and out.
The more I breathed, the more I searched for validation. Was I breathing right, at the proper pace, with enough gusto? Then I remembered a tip mentioned earlier that day, “Holotropic breathing has no technique. The breather can breathe however they wish. Just be sure to take in large volumes of air…”
Like a good little student, I obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper, Faster. Then another moment of recall, “Don’t over analyze your body or breathing, just breathe and breathe until your breath goes away…” An elusive recommendation at best, but thanks to Stanislav Grof and his wife Christina (co-developers of Holotropic Breathwork in the 1970’s), the facts are irrefutable. Saturate oneself of CO2 and you are just as likely to find yourself asleep or consciously squeezing through a birth canal, having lunch with your deceased father, or taking flight in the form of an eagle. Keep breathing. Deeper. Faster.
Eventually one (or more) of us heavily oxygenated students enters unexplored territory marked by sounds of screaming or writhing or crying. Only the breather knows if they’re trudging through swamps of struggle, climbing walls of anxiety, or drowning in delusion. Those were the adventures I was seeking, so I kept going…Breathe it in. Let it out. In. Out. In. Out.
Then something started to happen. First a tingling in the toes. Then vibrations in my legs. A tensing of the jaw, cramping of the back, then weightless. Floating. Was this basic physiology or cognitive overload? Psychological musings or psychedelic renderings? Only one way to find out… In. Out. Fill. Release. Inhale. Exhale.
From behind the darkness in my eyes, I began to notice faint colors then shape outlines. First, a long brown wooden item—hollow, rounded, with tiny blow holes. Then a large pink mouth. Wide open and toothless. Then something yellow. Perhaps a squirming snake…a flowering vine…no..it was a meandering path. Filling in from behind I began to see visuals of crisp riverways, green valleys, lush meadows, and dense forests. In the foreground, gentle rolling hills, then three little Hobbit-like shires surrounded by bustling families and playful children. With sinister shadows and jagged extremes, they rounded out this scene with risk and hazard. Way out on the distant horizon, a small stone castle overlooking a deep blue ocean. All but idyllic until a fierce-looking mountain range materialized out of thin air. Now present was pure polarity.
The sounds shift from drums to flutes. My breath settles. Something with reverence was here. Something hidden, yet relevant. The more I studied, the more appeared. Trauma and crisis, guilt and shame. Then truth and feel, ease and struggle, hope and fear.
Within seconds of seeing the nuance, a flood of gratitude filled my body. Before me was a divine life. Actually, my life. The more it revealed, the more I swelled. The people—those tiny figurines deep inside the scene—were of me, my wife, my children, and even my grandchildren. The tended estates and hillside castles on the hill were the fruits of my labor. The zigzagging yellow brick road and menacing peaks—those represented hard fought battles, paths untraveled, and future suffering. More appreciation. More respect. More compassion. Chest heaving. Heart filling. Tears pouring.
I could see clearly now. I was the painter. Those were my brush strokes.
