Jake Holder
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Thoughts Without Frontiers

Here you'll find cuts from LMMIA, and other reveries made manifest.

Emotional Healing Through Breathwork


An old man had once told me that I was enclosed by an emotional armor that prevents me from moving into new realms of wonder. The armor shields you from vulnerability, he said. It's comprised of old emotions, and it blocks you from dancing the dance your soul longs for. He said the armor is a conglomerate of energies, of my own making, that didn't resonate high enough on the vibrational spectrum to keep a fluid flow. He said the old emotions were like icy metal, needing to be transformed through heat, or intent, which could be found on the other-side of the veil, center sternum. 


I know a guy named Dean. He's a universal geometrician under the guise of LCDC at a drug rehab. He is a connoisseur of emotional intelligence and is cosmically (un)bound to raise the bio-energetic literacy rate (in Humanity) from below the bar, through practical application. Every Sunday, he’d bring humongous PA speakers to the group room of the rehab, and set the stage for clients to participate in something he'd call Access Breathwork—an intense use of the breath, capable of sending an intender into the well-spring to reclaim being. (www.accessbreath.org)

“This type of breath work facilitates ‘access’ to the spiritual and emotional realms (for processing and releasing),” he'd say. “It can provide an out of body experience and help one reach higher planes of consciousness. Ultimately, it’s about connection with your Self and the universe, and is a healing experience.”

“It uses a stacked breathing technique—deep inhale, exhale, followed by a double inhale, then an exhale. Your breath should be full and deep, filling your lungs completely. You want to breathe faster than normal, but remain relaxed and without strain. Follow the music and let it support your breathing. The answer to anything you encounter is in your breath, so keep breathing.”

He’d give everyone in the room mind-folds to keep the light outside from entering. This would allow for greater potential of inward travel. 


“Start out slow and gentle with the first song. None of the songs, for the whole hour and a half, have lyrics. You may want to set an intention. You may also want to ask for assistance from your higher guidance.”

“I’ve designed the playlist in a way that’ll build you up and let you down softly. As it’s speeding up, breathe. Give yourself permission to stay with the process. You may want to scream, hum, laugh or cry. You may want to chant. It's okay to do these things. Remember to keep breathing.”

Just remember to let go, I'd tell myself. Let it unfold. And breathe.


I’m laying flat on my back, hands over stomach like a corpse; I feel everything but. I’ll stay in this position for the whole session. Being physically still will allow the subtle bodies to move with ease. If I need to wiggle myself free, then so be it, wiggle it'll be. Intention: clear anything that needs to be cleared. Universe: I trust you’re with me, and Will: guide me.

My awareness is shifting. 

I slip into a non-ordinary state of consciousness overlapping the fringes of the place where waking perception casts its eye in the daytime. The music is playing. The bass is like a welcome thunder to my inner. I’m enveloped by darkness but my breath is moving proof of the counter. It keeps me at bay. I’m involved like the walls of a boat are involved with the waters of a lake. The stacks of inspiration pry new openings from the inside out like a deep tissue massage.

My body feels light, hot enough to burn calories.

An old familiar, almost forgotten place comes to me, as I to it. It’s a place below my normal awareness. I'm governed by this place to the extent I'm unaware of it. 


Light turns heavy and a lead blanket covers every square cubit of my outer skin, pressing me to comfort. I breathe and think about oak tree leaves.

Laying on my back, still, I fall deeper. Personifications of my past try to creep in like unsuccessful thieves in the night. I can’t feel my physical body because the lead blanket has conspired with gravity to press me out of it.

My breath conjoins with the sound. A canoe. Down a hole and through, I go to face the thieves head on.

A rampage of ruination bombards me like dirt being hurled from a shovel. Self-inflicted torture grows a face and screams at its approaching demise. Or transformation. The fiend rises from the cracks like so many times before. Its reluctance to let go suspends me mid flight like a child being held up from the back of his shirt neck by a bully. Bu…bu…but I thought we…wha?

Old habits die hard, it says.


The healthy weight of gravity brings me down. I remember where we are. But hard dies fast in this fluid world, I say. 

Its eyes light up like a Christmas tree. It’s burning. On fire. Squirming. It’s churning like butter dripping from a knife down into the whirlpool. Cries of anguish squeeze from its mouth. Smoke rises from the sound of the vanquish. 

Breathe Jake. Breathe.

A steam cleaner awaits in the distance as sensation emerges—my body is in pain from the movement of the old crust it’d grown accustomed to. It remembers the pathways. I feel, without a doubt, how much damage I’ve done to myself. I shine a light onto this grey clogged block of memory to spawn a positive resistance. A hint of wholeness of some type, from somewhere, comes out of the shadows.

A life of its own, crawling underneath my skin, makes it way from my thighs to my face. It’s slow. Lead like. I keep still and allow it to find a way. Disturbing images from the mental to the physical to the sensational to the audible arise from the positive fractures caused by motion—myself up against a fading past. A damned past. A baleful memory of how life once was. The music and my breath remain. They are inseparable.

Tears erupt from my eyes and I weep a weep that generates power within me. The flood is enough to drown roaches and ants. 

Spiral Wave.jpg

I want the sun to shine in perfect harmony, in a way that balances the water, air and earth. I want the roots of all things worthy to be fed. I don’t want anything or anyone to drown. My soul wants to proceed in becoming. I breathe in stacked circles—in out in in out, in out in in out—and I’m carried further through the well of swells that make mice look even smaller than they are.

The heat of the star pulls water up from the foundation of my being. I think about oak tree leaves one more time; and waves on the shore and bowling pin rumbles. The armor crumbles a little more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I say to myself like a child who has realized at once his actions had been wrong and he is thus on the threshold of transformation into a man because of his realization. I remember the cold metal box I’d been trapped in. Never again. Never ever again!


My form loosens up a notch and I-move-it-around—my body had known about it all along. I’m sweating profusely. The heat generated by the light of awareness has extended from the higher realms on down. The movement of my emotions allows for flow. The flow allows for communication with my soul once more. The mold cake thins as it swirls from hurt like a bird released. I reach out.

It reaches in. Forgive yourself, Jake. Truly, truly forgive yourself. 

I weep a wave greater than the weeping wave before. A grudge with myself I had had, but no more. I surf it. I can see the shore. 

The tears from the pain and torture have transformed into something forthcoming. The transformation is directly proportional to the degree my body becomes less stiff and encapsulated from the old and heavy weight i.e. the moldy moldy cake. 

I let go.

Cold dead numbness is filled with life. I see it happen in motion.


There’s no more ice, rigid and steel.

Where I’d once been in that hellish place, I’d found an exit.

The music plays. It has never left my side either.

Beneath the mountain of skin I’ve shed, I have gratitude for being alive. My body feels new, lighter than the one I’d come in with.

I roll in familiar laughter at the absurd. I roll because it feels good to laugh. It’s okay to let out sounds of rejoice at being alive.

I revel in my new form. Corks pop on the cellular level. The music winds down. 

There’s some type of cohesiveness in the state I find myself in—the opposite of emergency—there’s assurance in the vulnerable and a genuine smile permeates my face.

The voice of the heart has spoken. I have received. 

To a greater degree, compassionate centrifuge has been re-known.


By the will of a powerful force flowing through the universe, I breathe.


Thanks for reading. For more information on Access Breathwork, check out Dean's site www.accessbreath.org.  

See you in the fields,


Jake Holder