Checking Our Own Pulse
I cannot remember who taught me how to place my index and middle fingers on the inside of my wrist to feel for my pulse, but I can remember being fascinated with the sensation of my blood pulsing beneath the surface of my skin with every heartbeat. I recall sitting in class, only halfway listening to the teacher while counting in my head how many times I felt the gentle pressure as the second-hand on the classroom clock swept around the dial.
In some ways, my fascination with counting those heartbeats has not gone away. Nowadays, though, my smartwatch does the counting for me. Sometimes I play a game with myself and see how much I can slow my heartrate down. I sit comfortably in a chair and begin to relax my body. I release the tension in my face, allowing my eyes to close slightly. I regulate my breathing, filling my lungs with long, slow breaths before exhaling gently and smoothly to see if I can get the number to drop.
I keep my watch in view to see my heartrate slow. If I think too much about it, my excitement at my progress works against my efforts, and the number starts to climb back up. Only when I direct my attention to nothingness and fully quieten my mind can I get that number where I want it to go. As soon as I snap back into the present moment, the number jumps back up, though not always as high as it had been before I started.
In a sense, the game I play to regulate my heartrate is a lot like centering prayer. There is intentional stillness and physical relaxation. There is regulated breathing and a focus on nothingness. There is an attempt to let go of the distractions of life and be fully present in the moment. But, instead of seeking the companionship of Christ, which brings its own physical and spiritual benefits, I am chasing a silly physiological effect.
But how different are they, really? If I can get my heartrate down to 40 by allowing the anxieties, pressures, and distractions of life to leave my body, is it reasonable to think that I may also be spending that time in the presence of Jesus? Might even the slightest shift in intention be enough to sacralize my cardiovascular game?
Over and over, the gospel tells us that Jesus retreated from the crowds in order to spend time in prayer. In Mark 1, after a long night of healing every sick person who was brought to the house where he was staying, Jesus snuck out while it was still dark. Not even the disciples knew where he had gone. The Bible tells us that they literally hunted him down because the crowds were looking for him—because the people were desperate for his healing touch. Jesus had the power to give life and health to needy people, but sometimes his response to their demands was to leave them all behind.
Like Jesus, our retreat into prayer is not permanent. We return to face the challenges from which we have stepped away temporarily. We resume our normal life and accept the burdens that it brings. But time away has a lasting effect. Our heartrate does not immediately return to its previous level. We carry some of the refreshment we have experienced with us. It enables us to respond to the needs of the moment more fully, more gently, and more faithfully. And it teaches us to recognize the symptoms that arise when it has been too long since we have pulled back in prayer.
Do you ever get a text message or email that makes your heart start to beat faster and harder? Do you ever have a conversation during which you can sense your blood pressure rising? Do you ever think about a situation that frustrates you and then notice that your physiological response is a lot like walking up a flight of stairs even though you are only sitting still? Why do certain things have the ability to get adrenaline pumping through our bodies? And why do other things seem not to bother us as much?
One of the things that I try to take notice of in my own life is when something that ordinarily would not bother me suddenly does. A child’s failure to listen. A parishioner’s disappointment. A friend’s careless text message. A driver’s impatient honk. Normally, these sorts of moderate frustrations roll off of my back with little more than a shrug of my shoulders. But other times even the littlest thing gets under my skin, leading me to obsess about a meaningless detail or respond with disproportionate anger. Sometimes I cannot even remember why I am angry, but I can feel the tension in my shoulders and the pounding of my heart. Those are signs that I need to sneak off and be with Jesus.
Lots of us are carrying extra stress right now. Life is always hard, but, for many of us, it feels especially hard these days. People we love are anxious, and that makes us anxious. People we care about are vulnerable or hurting, and that exhausts our spiritual reserves. The news cycle is non-stop division and animosity. There is economic, political, and environmental uncertainty, and, even if we do not feel a strong personal reaction to societal stress, the free-floating anxiety causes us to react negatively to smaller setbacks. Things we do not actually care about elicit from us an exaggerated response. We are angry, and we sometimes cannot remember why.
Maybe it is time for all of us to check our own pulse—not fastidiously but intuitively. If you feel your heart beginning to race, perhaps change the channel or put down your phone. If you feel your face or shoulders or fist beginning to clinch, consider setting a ten-minute timer and spending that time breathing slowly and deeply. If you feel the blood rushing in your head so forcefully that the whole world seems to be vibrating, maybe you need to step away from the demands of this life for a little while. Step back and spend few minutes in the presence of Jesus. Those demands will wait for you to return, and, when you do, your ability to bear them will be a little bit greater. After all, Jesus is not hiding from us. He is with us all the time, but sometimes we need a few minutes away with him to remember that.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner
