Feeding My Voracious Passport With a Jellyfish-Munching Turtle in the Great Barrier Reef

#truelove #allowing #dating

GPS for the Soul – The Huffington Post
Feeding My Voracious Passport With a Jellyfish-Munching Turtle in the Great Barrier Reef
My passport is like the blood-sucking, voracious plant from Little Shop Of Horrors — the more I feed it, the hungrier it gets.

Last year, my 103-year-old grandmother “Grandma Betty” and I were slurping down cones of melting pistachio ice cream under the North Carolina sun, when she pointed to a patch of trees.

“Do you see those leaves?” She asked.

There were about 8 bajillion leaves, none remarkable enough for me to halt my losing battle against ice cream soup.

“Yeah, um, I think I see leaves.”

“When the wind blows, it’s odd, they don’t all move in the same direction. They go every which way.”

I squinted at the leaves. A gust swept through and, lo and behold, each leaf finger jolted in its own anarchic direction.

Grandma Betty meditates, notices leaf movements, and introduced us to the funny-sounding word “yoga” decades ago, while my immediate family buys Post-it notepads labeled “Stop And Smell The Stupid Roses.”

When I bragged to my grandmother about my extensive travel plans, she giggled with delight, but then sighed, “Honey, when will you ever have the time to breathe?”

She was born in New York City back when my office building was Wanamaker’s Department Store and it was unremarkable to have rocks thrown through her Jewish parents’ storefront. She moved to Hollywood at a time when streetcars rumbled through my former neighborhood instead of SUVs. Grandma Betty has spent the 52 years since my grandfather died raising three boys on her own, putting herself through speech therapy school, becoming an award-winning artist, and is currently studying neuroanatomy. And she still somehow takes time to breathe.

When my family visits her, we load up on 3 grande frappu-/cappu-/mocha-ccinos and one quad espresso at Starbucks, screech up to her apartment, sprint through the halls (we are Running With Hot Drinks masters), and take a final mouth-burning swig before hiding the excessive caffeine evidence behind our backs and jamming our cellphones into our pockets. We calmly enter her apartment, forcing our racing hearts and sweating palms to chill the heck out, because Grandma Betty will inevitably ask, “Why are you so rushed? Slow down and breathe.”

I struggle to describe my surroundings when I write my grandmother postcards. I race between cities, checking off “Must See” lists, snapping photos and feeding my gluttonous passport, but I forget to stop and smell the stupid roses. I don’t watch which direction the leaves blow.

In one of my holy-crap-if-I-don’t-go-now-I-never-will freakouts, I recently rushed off from Melbourne, Australia to the Great Barrier Reef for a weekend.


I did not take good photos. You can click here to see some nice photos that are not mine.

Mere inches below the patchy turquoise sea’s surface, a new world unfolded before the mask suctioning skin off my face. I was a tourist stumbling upon the Paris of the ocean.

There were corals carved with mazes shaped like brains, the ocean a serial killer-style vat of noggins.

Some corals crinkled inwards like scrunched up burlap bags, while others sloped into pointed mounds shellacked with the 1998 Crayola crayon color “Banana Mania.”

I swam over graveyards of white, broken coral limbs, then approached swaying corals, dozens of thin fingers waving to me, each one going its own direction. Was I actually noticing something? My next postcard to Grandma Betty would read “Guess what I observed today!” instead of “Guess what I did today!”

The crackle of fish snacking on coral echoed across the expanse.

Fat royal blue starfish lazily drooped their arms over rocks. Neon purple “worms” with spindly arms snapped open and shut. A pencil-thin fish with eyes as wide as its body darted through.

A giant clam gaped its mouth so wide that I wondered if I could fit inside of its shell. I was sad the clam was stuck in that one place forever, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. It had deep roots and a rich community in its homeland.

One lonely fish splayed with yellow stripes and a black spike off its head sullenly swayed through. I doubt it knew how beautiful it was.

Schools of basketball-sized fish momentarily blackened the ocean. A sparkly rainbow fish knocked its face into a smaller fish, then bullied a second creature when the first one ignored it.

A shark glided past me. No other fish minded, no “Jaws” music screeched, and the creature seemed unaware that its species was a Hollywood horror darling.


As Western Australia kills sharks through its culling program, a marine biologist warned me that removing an apex predator can damage a food chain all the way down to the coral.

A jellyfish flapped by with a center folded like a rose and thick rings for gonads. It felt rather inappropriate to stare, but the only jellyfish I’d seen before lived a seemingly dismal existence in a Los Angeles restaurant’s aquarium tank.

This creature flapped open and then curled tightly in on itself. Flap and curl. Flap and curl. That was it. Nothing else. I couldn’t stop watching.

When I did turn, a wall of jellyfish encircled me. My mask-suctioned eyeballs adjusted to witness hundreds lining the water, like glistening blobs of strawberry tapioca balls in a sea of Bubble Tea. All flapping and curling, flapping and curling. One flapped its gelatinous body against my face and I let out a muffled shriek through my mouthpiece.

A ray of sun broke through the water’s surface to reveal scratches on some of them, silver lightning bolts running down their sides. The prettiest of all were the ones that bore scars. World-weary and more beautiful for it.

I gently lifted my arms above my head and squirmed through the slippery wall. I reached a sea turtle as long as my torso, casually suspended in the water, popping its head up once for a gulp of air. I silently floated by its side. It occasionally pawed its flippers through the still water.

There we were, just a hundred jellyfish, a turtle and me. I pawed my arms through the water alongside the turtle, and felt I belonged.

The turtle opened its jaw and chomped down on a jellyfish. I was horrified.

It chewed once, twice, and then spit gooey remains out. Then it flapped its formerly awesome flippers to reach a second jellyfish, gnawed and spit again. I wanted to intervene, save the jellyfish! But I did not, in fact, belong in this world. I was a mere tourist.

Another ray of sun slipped through the water reminding me of the waiting world above, but I oddly found myself with nowhere I wanted to run off to.

When I returned for my first night scuba dive, the sky was black and underwater was a deep gray. I was biting so hard down on my scuba tank’s mouthpiece that the plastic flavor numbed my tongue.

I forgot everything I learned about diving as soon as I entered the water. I actually forgot every single piece of information I ever learned in my last 28 years of life.

My instructor removed a weight from the belt around my waist. The belt seemed to be a mafia-style drowning weapon and my scuba set was so heavy on land that when I placed it on, I stumbled backwards into the row of tanks.

Silent underwater, the instructor hand mimed to ask my status. I was freaked out, but I gave him a thumbs up. His eyes bugged out with concern. I forgot that a thumbs up means “End the dive!” I shook my head, and gave the okay sign. 

As we dove deeper, the grey darkened, our flashlights revealed just flecks of white stillness, my head spun and bubbles no longer emerged from my mouth because I’d stopped breathing. I blinked, trying to remember what to do. 

“Just breathe,” my instructor had first taught us. “Never forget to breathe.” 

I was getting dizzy, thinking I had to surface or I’d pass out and drown with all the weights and I forgot the instructor’s name, realized I couldn’t scream it underwater anyways, so I flailed my arms having already forgotten the hand signal for “get me the heck out of here” to no avail and I found myself with few options, no options, actually, but to breathe. I inhaled sharply, an awakening-from-a-nightmare gasp — there it was, oxygen. I clamped my hands over my mouthpiece and took another breath. 

I could breathe again, and as I glided between the walls of the reef, it was as if I was a bird soaring through a humid night sky, flying between mountains and caverns. 

There was a turtle floating asleep midair, maybe my jellyfish-munching one, and a twitchy fish with a bout of insomnia, and a moray eel larger than me with pointy teeth bared.

Back on the surface, I yanked off my mask and stared at the night sky. A creature soared above, and I thought it was a fish until I remembered what level of earth we were on.

I suspect I’ll remember my few moments in the underwater village more than I remember years that I spend in some cities. Perhaps it is not the length of time, but the quality. I only see Grandma Betty twice a year now, but without my caffeine and tech distractions I can see her — the “oh!” in her laughter, the blossom of her cheekbones when she smiles, the hum in her voice when she whispers “breeeathe” — with greater clarity than people I spend every frantic day with.

I have found no balance yet between fulfilling my desires to both see all the world’s wonders and actually soak some of them in, though I am fortunate to have either opportunity. I am still bewildered that there is an entire world below my feet that I have been missing out on as an earth-walker. But I slowed down in the Great Barrier Reef.

As dredging sludge is dumped in the waters and climate change looms, I hope my future grandchildren will have the chance to witness one of the world’s most fragile ecosystems. If they do, it would be nice if they remember to slow down and breathe (through a mouthpiece).

“Oh yes, the mountains are beautiful. But for me… for me, give me the sea.”
-Grandma Betty



ARGENTINA: Climbing Patagonia’s Glaciers With My Dearest Strangers And One Lone Instant Coffee Packet

BUENOS AIRES: It’s 3 a.m. and I Have Surrendered to a Stumbling, Magical Tango in Buenos Aires

The Dark Side Of Traveling You Don’t Write About In Postcards

CHILE: Here’s Why I Travel Despite Sometimes Ending Up Lost In A Sex Shop

EASTER ISLAND: The Holy Sh*t Island

NYC: Dear New York, We Need To Take A Break

JAPAN: Life Is What Happens When You’re Killing Time…Even With A Dead Camera, 120 Yen And A Lot Of Sleet

INDIA: How to Cross the Street in a Delhi Market While Eating Jalebis and Searching for a Scarf

INDIA: When My Mother Heard I Was Traveling Along To India…

Two Cellists Play AC/DC ‘Thunderstruck’ Like You’ve Never Heard It Before
When Luka Sulic and Stjepan Hauser get on their cellos, they can make any song their own — even if it’s AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”

Watch the unstoppable Croatian masters of 2Cellos get in traditional Victorian garb and absolutely rip through this epic melody.

If you were impressed, be sure to also check out their rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns ‘N Roses here.

We can’t wait to see what song they will cover next.

Sister Candida Bellotti, 107-Year-Old Nun, Shares Her Secrets For A Long, Joyful Life
Sister Candida Bellotti turned 107 years old on Thursday, and she is believed to be the oldest living nun in the world. Naturally, she has a thing or two to say about longevity and living well.

Born in 1907 in Verona, Italy, Candida joined the Camillian nuns more than 80 years ago and has spent her life traveling from city to city and working as a nurse.

The centenarian celebrated her birthday with Mass at Casa Santa Marta, followed by a meeting with Pope Francis and an interview with journalists eager to know the sister’s secret to such a long life.

Her tips were simple but powerful:

Listen To God


Candida’s recipe for a long and happy life included “listening to the voice of Christ and being meek as regards his will. Throughout my life I have always thought: wherever the Lord puts me, that is the right place for me.”

Giving thanks to God was also of key importance to the sister, ANSA reported. “God does it all,” Candida said. “I merely give Him thanks.”

The takeaway: Trust and give thanks to the forces outside your control that may guide your path.

Live In Joy


For this nun, experiencing joy is a daily practice closely related to her faith.

“Only those who feel the happiness of drawing near to the Lord can understand how abundant his love for us is, and how much serenity he leaves in our hearts.”

She also lives without regret, saying, “In more then eighty years of religious life I have never repented of my choice.”

The takeaway: If you have found a vocation you love and could imagine yourself doing for many years to come, you are on the right track.

Give To Others


In addition to serving God and cultivating joy, Candida noted the importance of “making those around you happy” as an element of a happy life. After more than 80 years spent in service to different communities, the nun would know.

Even more than anecdotal evidence, though, scientific studies have shown that volunteering and giving back to the community can increase life expectancy and improve life satisfaction. How’s that for an incentive?

The takeaway: Experience the joy that comes from bringing others joy through service, companionship and love.

Breath in Motion: Why Exhaling Matters Most

Have you been in a yoga class wondering, “Why is my breathing so shallow?” Have you been singing or performing on stage and suddenly realized you’re running out of breath? Have you been exercising, or even texting, and noticed you’re holding your breath?

We limit our breath for many reasons. Maybe we are feeling overwhelmed, stressed or just lost in thought. Sometimes our breathing changes in anticipation or while holding in a difficult emotion. Essentially, breathing is a response to our activity and state of mind.

Shallow breathing or holding your breath is not exactly “holding” your breath, but it is interfering with the flow of life force and the potential motion of the diaphragm. It can also cause the respiratory muscles to weaken and lose their ability to move optimally.

When we notice a lack of breath, the common response is to inhale and take a deep, forced breath. Let’s look at the design of the respiratory system, and see what other more effective choices are available.

There is great potential for the diaphragm and the ribs to expand and contract as the lungs, which sit on top of the diaphragm, fill, and dispel air. Let’s take a look at the exhale first. The diaphragm (the orange muscle in photo above) is a dome-shaped muscle that rises to get the air out of the lungs as you breathe out. Then, it moves down to make room for the air as you breathe in.

It’s a common thought that inhaling is the important phase in the act of breathing, and people try to control it. Many say, “take a breath” or “tank up” when singing. I find that this controlled inhale can actually place unhealthy pressure on the diaphragm, often tensing neck and chest muscles that do not need to be overly involved in breathing.

Because most people are busy taking an in-breath, they do not pay much attention to the exhale process. Without exhaling completely, excess carbon dioxide — a known stressor in your nervous system — may remain in your lungs. The system detects that there is too much carbon dioxide and not enough oxygen. Then, it does the only thing it knows how to do: ask for more oxygen, causing another inhale. Since the lungs are still partially filled with carbon dioxide, not as much oxygen can get in. A cycle is set in motion and you keep inhaling for more oxygen, but can’t get enough because the lungs have not been properly emptied. This habit can lead to shallow breathing and holding your breath.

However, when you exhale completely, your body is designed to take a “reflex” inhale. By releasing your ribs and expelling all air in the lungs, you engage the spring-like action of your ribs to expand and create a partial vacuum, and the air comes in as a neurological reflex. This is what I call an optimal breath.

Optimal breath means you do not suck air in to “take” a breath or “push” air out to expel a breath. You allow air to flow in and out, so the lungs easily exhale carbon dioxide and effortlessly fill with oxygen. As your whole system slightly expands and contracts, your nervous system has the potential to settle and reduce stress.

So, next time you are in yoga class holding your breath while reading a text or email or you catch yourself interfering with the motion of the breathing cycle in any way, don’t force an inhale. Remember the potential movement of your ribs and diaphragm. Try putting your hands on the sides of your ribs and gently pushing your ribs down and in a tiny bit as you exhale and then let them spring open for your inhale. Be sure not to collapse your whole torso as you exhale, and instead, lengthen your spine.

Let your breath find its own rhythm. Nothing is as close to you as your own breath. Some breaths may be long and deep, and others shorter. Like the ocean waves, flowing in and out, all breaths are not the same.

The optimal breath brings fresh new oxygen to fill your whole torso and spread throughout your body to enhance life force. Then you can be present and able to engage in your next activity with full body, mind, spirit… and breath!

Check out my book, The Actor’s Secret, for many more of these exercises for personal and professional well-being and growth.

Betsy Polatin is a Movement and Breathing Specialist, Alexander Technique Teacher, Master Lecturer at Boston University, and the author of The Actor’s Secret distributed by Random House.

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