This year, I had the chance to attend a spirit festival in Ubud, a city that is rich in culture and nature on the island of Bali, Indonesia. While the event had a vast array of yoga classes, I didn’t join any of them. Carpal tunnel syndrome has restricted my yoga movements for over ten years. Last year, I also had an unpleasant experience with hyponatremia (severe dizziness because of excessive sweating after intense physical activity). So, I avoided any intense activities, which were mostly held in non-air-conditioned rooms in the tropical air.
Initially, I had just planned to explore the event. No exact plan when I arrived late afternoon on the second day and wandered around the festival’s spacious venue. It wasn’t me, I thought at the time. Didn’t feel connected.
On my first night in the hotel room, I scanned the program. And 120-minute breathwork sessions drew my attention. I imagined them as meditations that focus on breathing. No more. But the 120 minutes seemed to be challenging. I used to meditate, but thirty minutes were the longest. It has been harder to find time recently, though. In Japan, the place I live now, long meditation classes are also hard to find.
I joined three breathwork sessions — one dynamic and two shamanic, one a day. Drumming music played during the shamanic session increased my self-awareness, while free body movement during the dynamic session felt as if releasing my emotions. Before joining breathwork, I expected it would help reset the rhythm of my mind. But surprisingly, they showed me more than just peace. Especially the first session—it awakened me.
Four or more facilitators guided dozens of participants. We inhaled through our noses and exhaled from our mouths. Most importantly, we were instructed to make a sound, “AAAAAA…”, as loud as we could as we exhaled. Other participants started shouting. I didn’t know if it was soundproofing or not. But it was at the far end of the venue, quite isolated from the other ones. Screams filled the closed room. I tried, but as if a rope tied up my larynx, I could only hiss. My voice was stuck in my throat. That was what made me realize something was blocking my chest. That thing seemed to hinder the air in my chest from flowing free. Like when I strained when constipated, my shoulders tensed up. I massaged my chest with my fingers, hoping it would help release the blockage. Shrieking and wailing kept sounding from others. Still, I didn’t whimper. But tears streamed from the corner of my eyes, wetting my earlobes and the tips of the hair around them. I didn’t know why. I didn’t think of the reason.
I don’t remember how many breaths I had let out, maybe dozens or even hundreds, when the air started pouring into my nose and out of my mouth, like water running after the pipe’s limescale had been scraped off. All the air that had been blocked in my throat and chest streamed out till nothing remained. I could breathe in and out longer. Inhaled and exhaled without breaks. Along with my exhalation, I shouted, joining in with the others (I can’t recall the last time I had shouted that loudly). My tears were like water currents. Many others sniffled. So, no worry that others would see me cry with wonder.
After the session ended, I didn’t join other sessions. I went for lunch and returned to the hotel. Lay on my bed and sensed vibrations that remained in my body. I felt lighter as if I had received a deep-tissue massage. Lots of blockages had gone. I didn’t know (still don’t know now) where the blockages had come from. I might have had anger or woe that I had suppressed. My habit of holding back tears might have hardened the obstructions even worse. I didn’t think of the reasons. I just wanted to enjoy the gliding breaths.
That day, I learned how important it is to express emotions. I realized that voicing my mind and feelings brings serenity.
Photo Credit
Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash
First published at Medium
Guest Author Bio
Kartika Lestari
Kartika Lestari is a former academic who started writing more seriously in 2021. She loves writing memoirs and personal essays, and keeps improving her craft through some courses, such as UCLA Extension for Memoir Writing. Now, she is completing her first memoir about how discovering the truth about his father’s past has broken down the barrier that for decades had seemed to block her love for him.
Find more about her on rkartikalestari.com and her stories on medium.com/@rkartikalestari.
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