A man in a pale sky-blue checked shirt sat on a wooden deck. His right hand rests at the center of his chest, his left hand a hand's span below it on his belly. The sun comes in low from the left of the photograph, lighting up the tendons of his forearm and the veins on the back of his hand.
Behind him stand a white railing and black posts, and beyond them the grass is steeped in the gold of late afternoon. His eyes are not closed, but they are loose and unfocused, fixed somewhere far off.
Step into this scene and the two palms are what you feel first. The hand on the chest is pushed up a little with each in-breath, and the hand on the belly moves later than that, and deeper. The shoulders stay far from the ears. The warmth of the deck boards rises slowly from under the soles of the feet.
What he had been holding onto is close to impatience. When the breath goes short all day, rising and falling only high in the chest, a face ends up looking like that.
You find yourself laying two hands on chest and belly where you are sitting now. Breathe in counting to four, send it out counting to six. All you have to do is make the out-breath two beats longer than the in-breath.
Three rounds are enough, and if the count falls apart, you simply start again from one. It would be fine just to keep an eye on whether the hand on the belly moves more than the hand on the chest.
You could also lay the same hands on at the sink when the dishes are done. Just after the sound of water stops, taking the hand that turned off the tap straight to your belly. Then check once for the tension in your jaw. Whether you had been clenching your back teeth, whether your tongue was pressed to the roof of your mouth.
The evening light slipped over the railing before long, and beneath the palms the count is at six.
