The mind counts to a hundred, the breath only to four

Four in the afternoon, and the iced milk coffee is down to melted ice, leaving wet rings on the desk by the window. Three tabs open on the screen, three pages of a translation still unfinished, a motorbike revving in the alley below and then cutting out. I closed my eyes and tried counting breaths, the way someone once showed me. One. Two. By fifteen my mind had run off to a client's message I had not answered.

I sat back and listened to two voices in me talking to each other. I wrote it down almost word for word.

The Mind: Count to a hundred. A hundred breaths is what deserves to be called meditation. Four is nothing.

The Breath: One. Two. Three. Four. Then one again.

The Mind: That's it? You get to four and start over. How is anyone supposed to score that?

The Breath: Nobody is scoring. I count to four because four is something you can remember. If you count to a hundred, you are holding on to numbers, not listening to me.

The Mind: But what if I lose track halfway? I'm at seventy-something, I think about something else, and it's gone. I'd have to start over. Exhausting.

The Breath: Losing track is fine here. You lose it, you go back to one. That's all.

The Mind: Sounds too easy. I don't trust anything that easy.

The Breath: Some days it isn't easy. Some days you are gone by three. I am still here.

The Mind: The translation has three pages left. I have to think about that.

The Breath: Go ahead and think. I only count to four. When you are done thinking, I will be where I was.

The Mind: I'm afraid that if I only count to four, I'm being lazy.

The Breath: Four is a whole round. Nothing is missing.

A quiet moment. Down in the alley someone dragged a metal shutter closed, a long screech and then silence. Neither voice would admit to winning, but neither argued any further.

I counted six rounds, twenty-four breaths in all, then opened my eyes. The coffee had gone completely weak, the ice had turned to water, and my hands on the keyboard were a little less hurried. Or so I thought. I am not sure. All I am sure of is that those six rounds were six I could actually remember, while last week's count to a hundred I abandoned somewhere in the forties and could not say why.

Maybe the two voices do not need anyone to win. The Mind keeps me from giving up by thinking too little, the Breath keeps me from giving up by asking for too much. A number that fits in your hand may matter more than a big one.

Counting breaths should stay gentle. If while counting you feel dizzy, short of breath, tightness in the chest, or tingling in your hands, stop counting, go back to breathing normally as you always do, and sit still until you feel settled. If it happens again, or it worries you, please see a doctor to rule out a physical cause. I cannot explain why it happens, and neither can the two voices above.