I breathe, slowly and mindfully, although not as deeply as I would like to. All the windows in the house are tightly closed. It’s 105 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside. The air conditioning is not on, due to the power shortage – and because it will bring in the unwelcome air from outside. 

The air outside is brown. There is no blue in the sky. Nothing moves, and it feels as if nothing breathes out there. People don’t venture out of their homes. Even the bees are hidden in some refuge known only to them. Only the eerie quietness lingers together with the ominous pink-brownish haze: thick, heavy, and unbreathable. 

We are among the lucky ones. There are people I know whose homes perished in the fiery inferno. Others, staying with friends after being evacuated, only hope that the flames raging all around will spare the houses they left in a hurry. 

We are simply in the midst of the thick, unbreathable haze, and this is a reason to be grateful. We are not ordered to pack our lives in a few bags and urgently leave. We appreciate the moment deeper, hurting for those who are not spared by yet another calamity. Two nights ago, 10,800 lightning strikes sparked 367 fires in the Bay Area. There was a fire tornado. The temperatures have been breaking records for days. The ominous word that screams from everywhere is “unprecedented.” Now we all turn into first responders, one way or another: checking on each other, helping with food and shelter, digging the earth around a neighbor’s house, hoping to break the deadly path of the blaze. 

The twilight tries to penetrate within. The time becomes irrelevant, measured only by the sparse updates on the fires’ containment. Shelter in place takes on a new, deeper meaning. 

I need to break out of the daunting unrest that possesses me. It’s time to breathe, as absurd as it might sound right now. I put a few drops of pure lavender oil in a tiny spray bottle and fill the rest of it with water before spraying the air in the room. The oil is too precious to be used more lavishly. The scent carries the scents of the faraway fields of my native land. There, in Bulgaria and everywhere in Europe, the pandemic is in the past. It’s summer there, a time to relax and enjoy life as usual. Overseas, people probably hear on the news that there are fires burning in California. “Well, it’s a rich state,” they say. “It will manage.” And they move on with their daily lives. 

I don’t wish to be there. I don’t try to escape. My family and I are here – together.

I breathe. The subtle fragrance, or maybe just the idea of it, refreshing the heavy air begins to work its magic on me. My mind believes its calming reassurance. It allows the senses to hug it like a teddy bear, soothing and softening the sharpness of the sensations within. The body craves the stillness, mindful not to waste too much energy. The room is painted in a sunlight color, which contrasts bravely the murkiness outside. I find myself surrendering to the rhythm of a meditation I’ve learned from Mark Nepo’s beautiful Book of Awakening. I open my eyes and breathe slowly, taking in all there is in the moment, contained in five conscious breaths. I close my eyes and invite myself to imagine what I want from the moments within the next five breaths. Then it’s time to reverse the process: with my eyes open, I imagine what I want. Closing the eyes brings me to what I have. Then, reversing again. Twenty or thirty minutes have passed. Who’s counting? What I want is what I have.