The Last Attack

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept me from having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods, most plants, trees, grass and flowers. And keeping a pet - especially a dog or a cat - was completely out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed: I needed to avoid everything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the doctor every Saturday morning for my weekly allergy shot.
"Do not exert yourself," he told me. "It will probably trigger a dangerous asthma attack."
Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my bike like a demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I became the top gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50-, 60- and 100-yard dash records. At eleven, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the allergy shots each week - a subjective decision based not on information I read in any book, nor on the advice of any experts. Rather, my body told me I didn't need them anymore.
My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. "We'll see how you do without them," they said.
But I wasn't through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to get a dog - a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love - and I began to immerse myself in all the things that used to make me sick (or had been told would make me sick). I cut the grass for neighbors who didn't know I wasn't supposed to be near lawns. I smelled flowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat strawberries, which doctors said "could possibly be fatal."
I don't remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my last. I was eleven years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was running hard through the African jungle - in reality, the alleys behind our house. There were many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun. Sometimes while running, especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell and squeeze off my air supply. That day was no different. Reluctantly, I decided to leave the jungle and return home to rest.
The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed, quiet focus. In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.
As I lay on my parents' bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the shiny silver bolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what seemed like the still point in the center of the fan's great vortex and held my attention there, while listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard the rapid, rhythmic crackling sounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high pitched whistles, which marked the trail of the few puffs of air struggling to make their way through narrow passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to my body.
Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life forever: a simple thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I understood, for the first time, that the little bit of air getting through was all that was necessary to sustain me. It was enough. When I realized I have nothing to fear, I will always have enough air, my lungs opened fully.

One God and Father of ALL, who is above ALL, and through ALL, and IN you ALL