Discovering a Calm We Didn’t Know We Had - and a Wild Thought

“The vagus nerve is a key component of the neural circuitry that enables us to feel safe enough to connect with others.” — Stephen Porges , renowned neuroscientist who developed polyvagal theory

Stephen Porges, a neuroscientist who has spent decades studying how our bodies respond to safety and threat, suggests something both simple and profound: before we can connect, before we can rest, before we can even think clearly, our bodies need to feel safe.

I’ve been thinking about that lately.  The participants in my SAIL (stay active and independent for life) and chair yoga class and I have been talking about it for months.

Yesterday, a SAIL participant (thank you, Anne) handed me an article.

“This made me think of you,” she said, tapping the page. It was from the March/April AARP Bulletin, and right there in the middle was something we had been brushing up against in our SAIL and chair yoga time together—this idea of the vagus nerve and how it helps calm the body (and optimize heart variability).

You know how it goes. You start noticing something—how a longer breath settles you, how a walk outside clears your head, how a kind conversation lifts something you didn’t even know was heavy—and then you find out there’s actually science behind it.

The body has pathways for this. The vagus nerve is one of them, running quietly through us, helping regulate whether we feel safe enough to relax, connect, and be present.

I wouldn’t say I’ve mastered any of this. Most days I’m practicing, remembering and forgetting, trying again. But I am beginning to be open to a new, perhaps pretty wild idea about the connection of the body and spirit. It involves connecting what we are finding out about the vagus nerve and vagal tone and something Jesus said and a popular and very different Franciscan Priest has been writing about.

I have been watching some videos and reading some excerpts of Father Richard Rohr’s book, The Universal Christ. Rohr has this way of gently widening the lens. He suggests that Christ is not only someone we believe in, but a presence already woven into everything—into creation, into our lives, into the very fabric of reality. He also says this is what Jesus was pointing to when he spoke of the Kingdom of God—not a distant place, but something “within you and among you,” something near, something already here.

I’m still turning that over. Let’s think about it from what we know.

Someone comes into SAIL class a little tight, a little worried, maybe tired from the day before. We begin with simple movements, a bit of breath, sometimes a laugh slips in. And over time, something shifts. Shoulders lower. Faces soften. By the end, there is often a quiet ease in the room that wasn’t there before. Nothing dramatic, just a gentle return.

You could say that’s the nervous system regulating, and you would be right.

And sometimes, it feels like something more. But first...

Then there are the moments when things go the other way.

Just last night at the community meal, things got stirred up. Several homeless people came to the entrance – I knew one of them; another one had a pit bull and said it was a service dog. They had been to the meal before – just last week, and some of the folks had felt uneasy because the dog didn’t seem fully under control.

They pointed out the youngsters and frail people who might be at risk. The frightened people asked if I could do something about the pit bull. As the greeter, I felt responsible for both hospitality and safety, and in that moment those values felt like they were pulling in different directions. And this came up again last night as they stood at one of the church entrances.

I told the folks with the dog that I could get them food to go, but that they couldn’t come in with the dog because people were frightened. They were actually quite compliant, and it all ended peacefully enough. But inside, I could feel it. My body had revved up. My heart was faster, my thoughts sharper, my system on alert.

Later, John and I talked it through. As he often does, he found a wiser, more spacious way. He suggested that we could have said something like,  “We’d love to have you stay, but some people are frightened by the dog, maybe one of you could walk the dog while the others eat, so that we could find a way that works for everyone.” It held both kindness and safety together. I could feel the difference immediately. It was the response I wished I had found in the moment.

But the body doesn’t always settle just because the situation is over.

In the middle of the night, it came back. Not the whole event, just the feeling of it. That familiar surge—replaying, rethinking, tightening. You probably know that feeling too, when the body seems to pick something up again long after it’s finished.

That’s what a lower vagal tone can feel like. Not a flaw, just a system that has a harder time settling once it’s been activated. It can show up as anxiety that lingers, sleep that gets interrupted, emotions that feel sticky instead of flowing through. Depression.

So there I was, awake, with my body still holding onto something. And I remembered something simple.

I began a loving kindness prayer, quietly, gently, not forcing anything:

“June, may you be happy. May you be healthy. May you know you are loved.” I repeated it again and again, like a soft rhythm. At first, it felt almost mechanical, but slowly something shifted. My breath softened. My body eased. The sharp edges dulled. And eventually, I drifted back to sleep.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was a return.

And that, I am learning, is what this is all about for me.

Researchers like Stephen Porges talk about vagal tone as the body’s ability to move between states—to activate when needed and then come back down. Good vagal tone doesn’t mean you never get stirred up. It means you can recover. You can return. You don’t stay stuck for long.

And the hopeful part is this: it used to be thought that this capacity was mostly fixed, you have good vagal tone or you don’t, it was something you were born with. But now we are learning that vagal tone can be strengthened, gently, over time.

Through practice.

Through experiences of activation and settling, again and again.

That’s where all these simple things come in.

Breathing with a longer exhale helps the body shift toward rest. Humming or singing creates soothing vibrations  (I feel it happen for me in Taize services where we repeat loving chants/song.). A splash of cool water can reset things in a surprising way. Time in nature widens the lens. Connection with others reminds the body it is not alone. Compassion—especially toward ourselves—softens what is tight.

And then there is movement.

I didn’t always think of exercise as part of this, but now I see it differently. When we move—walking, stretching, strengthening, even just standing up and sitting down with awareness—we gently raise the body’s activation. The heart rate increases, the breath deepens, the system engages. But then, afterward, something else happens. The body settles. It comes back down.

Over time, this teaches the nervous system something important: I can get stirred up, and I can return.

That is vagal tone.

And the benefits ripple outward. We become more resilient, less reactive, more able to connect. We recover more quickly from stress. We sleep a little better. We have more access to patience, to kindness, to presence.

In other words, we become more able to live the kind of life we actually want to live.

Okay, hang on to your hats.  Here comes the wildest part. Maybe this is even what Jesus was partially pointing to when he spoke of the Kingdom—this way of being that is grounded, connected, and open to love.

I am still learning all of this. Still practicing. Still having nights where I wake up a little too stirred up and have to find my way back again.

So I’m trying to keep it simple.

A longer exhale when I notice I’m rushing. A bit of movement, even when I don’t feel like it. A hum or a song now and then. A walk outside. A conversation instead of isolation. A quiet word of kindness to myself when I need it most.

None of it is perfect. But together, it forms a path. Of presence.

A path of returning.

And maybe that’s enough—not that we never get revved up, but that we learn, gently and over time, how to come back to …if we dare think of this radical way…the Kingdom near us, within us. Perhaps resonating with…the Universal Christ?

I’m not sure what Richard Rohr would say about this. Nor do I know what Stephen Porges would think, but if nothing else, it’s a beautiful, healing, and enchanting metaphor that can help us regulate ourselves.

How might we understand vagal theory, practice ways of raising our vagal tone, consider that the Kingdom of God is within and near us...and journey together to the Good Life?

BTW, you can read and see Richard Rohr’s videos online.  YouTube is one source.  And you can read Stephen Porges’s books but they are extremely hard to understand – even one he wrote with his son which aimed to make the whole thing easier to digest. 

John's inner self, Franciscan at heart.

Last thoughts: I think if John and I had been Catholic monks, I would have been a Jesuit (sometimes lost in arcane academia unless some grounded Benedictines are around...luckily I have some friends like that.) and John would have been a charming Franciscan (loving all people and creatures…and finding God on his hikes up the mountain. And just another little aside here.  Rohr says we should just shelf the word “God” for fifty years so that we could release the word from all the baggage it carries.)