Just a normal, ordinary breath.
Not the kind you hold.
Not the kind you count.
Not the kind you run out of after a while.
The passive, regular kind.
The one that doesn’t inflate all the way.
The sort of inhalation that ensures you’re only taking as much as you need in the moment.
The kind you borrow from the environment without asking.
Certainly not the type you fight to keep, nor keep out.
It’s not one anybody can take away because it was never yours for long enough.
The unnoticeable, undisturbed pattern that happened eight lines ago.
The unmissable, forgettable - silent and gone now.
It’s the physical response the awareness makes - the awareness I’m unaware of most of the time.
My drive to survive depends on something involuntary inside me willing to keep firing these connections.
It’s a bridge, nonetheless.
That surface-level, typical exhale.
It makes no difference if I consciously tell myself to respirate.
This nature chooses to animate through me.
It has to pass along micro-particles of information from your macrocosm.
It invites us to participate in something larger.
Wind forces its way into me and mazes its way back out when it gets what it wants.
I was born to submit to this one master spirit.
I surrender to the penetration, and feel it exit clean like a toothpick pokes through cake to test its readiness.
magiK8blowingkisses 💋
I've recently learned to meditate after a lifetime of trying and failing and breathwork work is such an important component that really does work---gets me to that "place" where I need to go.
I would love to be there, to stay there without thinking...That's what this poem is to me. Thank you.
Whoever went back eight lines🌬️💞...
BeUtifull, a breath of fresh aeyer🙌🏽thank U