I just became the uncle of quintuplets. The babies were ten weeks premature and we assumed that, like many preemies, the quints might have respiratory problems. Sure enough, Zachary, the fourth-born, tends toward apnia: he sometimes forgets to breathe.

    The other day, I was talking to my sister-in-law. It seems Zachary does better when he’s in the same crib with his former womb-mates. “He never forgets to breathe when he’s with his brothers,” she said. In Anne Tyler’s novel, Breathing Lessons, the protagonist is a meddlesome woman who, nevertheless, has learned one important lesson: people let things slip. In her own wrong-headed way, she tries to help them (whether they want help or not) repair the damage—to keep breathing.

    Like Zachary, we all sometimes forget to breathe. When was the last time you really knew you were alive, when you were aware of living within a moment that truly mattered? Maybe it was a moment of deep, wordless joy, or maybe it was one of profound sorrow. Perhaps it was a moment of decision; a time when you knew that your choices had implications beyond your imagination.

    One great trick of effective, significant living may be the ability to recognize such moments when they occur (often without much warning), and engage them completely. But too often, we get sidetracked by other priorities: societal expectations, maintaining an image, avoiding vulnerability… There are any number of fears and influences that can prevent us from engaging the critical moments. Lots of things can make us forget to breathe.

    This isn’t a recent problem. Several thousand years ago, a wise man summarized the engaged life this way:

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…

    But it’s hard to live like that. When it’s time to weep, for example, we believe others would rather see laughter, so we play along. Don’t we frequently feel pressured to help plant when it may really be time to uproot? When everyone else is dancing, don’t you feel a little self-conscious, wearing that mourner’s veil?

    But I wonder if denying the truth of the moment—even an unpleasant truth—isn’t deadening. Any counselor can tell you that failure to recognize and deal appropriately with reality usually has negative emotional and psychological effects. In short, I wonder if shoving aside the critical moment doesn't make it easier to forget to breathe.

    Maybe that’s where the rest of us come in. Maybe, like Zachary, we need our brothers and sisters around to remind us. Maybe we all need to be able to give and receive breathing lessons.

Thom Lemmons manages retail bookstores and publishing for Abilene Christian University. He is the author of four novels and has just completed work on an illustrated book for children about the birth of quintuplets to his brother-in-law and sister-in-law.

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