I had been singing for many years before I realized why I was often short on breath. To produce a well-made, fully-bodied note, I was using more air than I needed to. I had lots more air than I realized. Air to spare, in fact.
It was only when anxiety disappeared that I was able to understand this phenomenon. All my life, until then, I overdid it. With everything I did. When I was a student, I tended to over-study before an exam, even though I secretly knew I could study less and still do well on the test. I over-prepared for everything. Tried harder than the thing asked for.
There is a bodied sensation of economy in all things.
Beneath this excess of effort was a perverse belief. If things didn’t go well, at least if I had worn myself out with preparing (planning, studying, going over and over) — at least I could say I gave it my best. As if knowing that would make the pain of failure more bearable. My best typically amounted to an exhausting expenditure of energy driven by artificially-induced worry that was completely out of line with reality.
So, the singing. I was occasionally asked to sing solos because conductors appreciated my voice. I understood this as a vote of confidence in my singing ability. Only, my breathing didn’t seem to justify the confidence, at least, as my body reported things to me.
When I was one in a sea of altos, in a choral situation, it was possible to hide my breath shortage. I could sneak in little sips of breath, mid-line. This “cheating” would not be noticed because of all the other voices around mine. But standing alone on a stage, with no others to hide among, is profound exposure. Whatever comes out of your mouth is noticed. If you run out of air, or if you take an interrupting sort of breath mid-line, there is no place to hide.
Leading up to a long solo line, I’d take in a gigantic breath, holding chest and head and chin just right. No matter what — no matter the length of the line, or how much air I had taken in — all of the air would be spent by the time of the final note, whether or not (I now see) all of that air was actually needed. The last note, at least the end of the last note, was often wobbly, faint, anemic.
I always imagined that what I needed was bigger lungs, a more disciplined diaphragm, better posture.
I now see that — as with all else in life — the struggle for enough breath had to do with economy. It was about divining the amount of effort that was called for, and bringing to it just that. And no more. I was using more air-per-note than was asked for. Like flooding an engine you’re trying to start by giving it too much gas.
This is related to the experience of having plenty of time (in a day, a week, a life). This economy is what enables the absence of feeling rushed. It’s what has taken away the pressure of needing to get to everything on the list. Economy of effort is related to the idea that if there could be just a little more time (or money, or love), all would be completed, satisfied, and so there could be rest at last.
There is a bodied sensation of economy in all things.
There always was plenty of air. Plenty of time. Energy. Intelligence.
Nowadays I hardly prepare — for anything. At least, in the obsessive way I used to. I know that when the time comes, I will know what to say or do. That it will all occur spontaneously. The space of a moment that is neither anticipated nor dreaded nor hurried away from — that space is enormous. It is generous, perfectly still. All the resources you could ever wish for. Plenty to spare.