The One Who Scores and the One Who Just Sits, After Ten Minutes of Breathing That Went Nowhere

Four out of ten.

Five in the afternoon, on the balcony behind Block C of the dormitory. I am sitting on a plastic stool pushed against the wall, an arm's length from the railing, having just finished ten minutes of counting breaths. Down in the yard a basketball thuds steadily on concrete, on the line hang a few shirts that still smell of washing powder, and I am holding a pen, writing the number four in the corner of a notebook page the way you would mark a test.

I am a third-year student. That afternoon two voices in my head were talking to each other, one that has scored everything since I was small, and one that only knows how to sit. What follows is close to what they said.

The one who scores: Four out of ten. In ten minutes my head worked out next month's rent, ran through Thursday's presentation, and replayed what my roommate said this morning. I got to three breaths and that was it.

The one who sits: What are you scoring?

The one who scores: The session, what else? Every session needs a score, otherwise how do I know whether I am getting better?

The one who sits: Is there a right answer for this session? Is anyone grading it?

The one who scores: No one. But without a score it is as if I never did it. In my last year of high school I only learned things because of me, remember? A score on every piece of work, and when the score went up, I could relax.

The one who sits: I remember. Thank you for that, truly. But in those ten minutes, did you hear the basketball?

The one who scores: ...Yes. It kept thudding, it annoyed me, I thought it was breaking my concentration.

The one who sits: And the smell of washing powder on the shirts?

The one who scores: That too. For two or three breaths I forgot about the presentation completely. But that does not count, because I was not counting then.

The one who sits: And the times your mind ran off and you pulled it back, how many?

The one who scores: Three. Or four. I could not keep up.

The one who sits: Three or four times noticing you had wandered, and coming back. That is the only job this exercise has, and you did it three or four times in ten minutes. Where does your score fit into that?

The one who scores: ...I do not know. Does coming back count?

The one who sits: I do not know whether it counts, I only know that is where the exercise runs. But tell me, if you gave yourself six yesterday and four today, would you quit?

The one who scores: No. But today I almost did not write it down, because I was afraid the number four looked bad. Then I told myself: just drop it, it will be lighter.

The one who sits: So is the score keeping you here, or pushing you away?

The scoring voice stayed quiet for a long while. Down in the yard the ball thudded a few more times, and then somebody laughed. One of the shirts on the line swayed slightly, though I could not feel any wind.

The one who scores: ...Pushing me away. I am afraid of both: afraid that if I stop scoring I will quit, and that if I score and it is low I will want to quit anyway.

The one who sits: I am not asking you to stop scoring. I only have one question: if this notebook had no column for scores, what would you want to write?

This time the scoring voice did not answer right away. I heard the stool creak softly under me as I shifted, and I heard a motorbike start up in the car park and fade into the distance.

The one who scores: I would want to write the basketball. And three times coming back.

The one who sits: Then write it.

I wrote in the notebook, right under the four I had already written: the basketball, the washing powder, three times coming back. Then I crossed out the four, not because it was wrong, only because it no longer had a place in that line. Some people will find dropping the score a relief at once, and some will find it hollow, like missing something they are used to holding. Both are ordinary, and the scoring voice is still there. I did not drive it out.

If you also finish sitting and feel as though nothing happened, nothing happened after sitting, did it fail is about exactly that. And if your mind keeps wandering, when the mind refuses to settle offers a lighter way of looking at it.

One more thing needs saying plainly. If you feel dizzy, short of breath, tightness in the chest or numbness in the hands while you practise, stop, let your breathing return to its own ordinary rhythm, and do not push on. If those feelings keep coming back, or you are worried, go and be examined so that physical causes can be ruled out. This exercise is not the place to look into that.

On the line, the last T-shirt has dried, its corner still warm with sun. I stand up and fold it.

Down in the yard, the basketball keeps thudding.