Of appeasers and crocodile feeders

‘Find a quiet place away from your computers. Turn off all mobile phones and other devices. Relax. Breathe in gently, count to six. Hold. Breathe out gently, count six again. Repeat. Keep your mind only on your breathing.’

I have, truth be told, experimented with this routine once some years ago, but I think pre-bed time isn’t the appropriate moment to be striving for better inner focus, for I fell asleep sometime between the 12th and 15th cycles.

In broad daylight and in the company of others, however, I find the exercise immensely relaxing, even if it is a bit of a chore dragging back and tethering a mind given to wanderlust.

Practice. It needs constant practice then it becomes second nature, says Roman. Roman is Polish, his vowel-less surname is easily misspelled so everybody simply calls him Roman. Ro-marn.

Or, Romano.

After 15 minutes of tracking the ins and outs of breath, he calls a halt. We all rise as a group, nine of us, stretching, flexing limbs and muscles that are inching towards numbness or borderline cramp. A week of this and the muscles actually start behaving. Deep breathing is somehow having a soothing effect on their earlier rebellious attitude, especially the crossed (and very cross!) thigh and calf muscles, as well as the rigid spine, so used to a good old-fashioned slouch or at the very least an inclination away from the vertical.

The first day Barney, my scalawag friend and co-seeker of inner peace, dashed out to light up a cigarette straight after the limb-folding and breathing exercises — only to rush straight into Roman outside sipping a cup of green tea, which all the others are invited to imbibe as well.

“Nicotine, caffeine and alcohol are best avoided,” said Roman, gently plucking the unlit cigarette from Barney’s fingers and inserting it back into the packet. “Let me give you some advice, my friend. It’s free. You can take it or ignore it. But if you want a clear mind, these won’t help. Our brain receives messages through chemicals in the neurons. Alcoholic drink, cigarettes even coffee in their own way supply the wrong chemicals. They cloud the brain.”

“It’s going to be very hard to give these up, mate,” Barney replies, “I’ve been doing this for 30 years. You could say we’re almost inseparable.”

Roman rolls up the sleeves of his dark green t-shirt. “Take a look,” he invites, showing us his forearms, “See anything?” Neither of us perceives anything extraordinary. “That’s right, you don’t see a thing different. But let me tell you guys. These veins ... they didn’t look like this some years ago. They were scarred all over, buddy. So many marks, prick after prick after prick.”

He points to a discolouration on one cheek. “See this? This won’t go. It’s permanent. A reminder of the past. But in a good way now. It keeps me from turning back though I know for sure that’s a road I will not be travelling ever again.”

He sips more tea from his paper mug. “It’s your choice of course. We have our rights. But I can only talk of my experience. Also, it’s easier to learn from another person’s experience than experiencing it yourself before learning a lesson. Life may not be as kind to each one of us. Life is, after all, inconsistent in doling out favours.”

Well, it’s been a fortnight now and I have to say that in the times I’ve met him since, I haven’t seen Barney with a cigarette — even an unlit one dangling from his lips begging to be fired. Yesterday, he finally opened up.

“It’s amazing what you could do if you put your mind to it, eh, Kev? It’s what Roman said the other day that made most sense to me. He said, ‘An appeaser is a person who feeds a crocodile hoping it will eat him last.’ Somehow that touched a chord deep inside.”

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.