[Editor’s Note: This Community Voices piece is a poem by Angie Funtanilla.]
I discovered my breath, within the final mile. The place had it been? Had it been hiding?
I discovered my breath; it got here out out of the blue just like the solar bursting by cussed clouds that attempted to maintain it at bay, however the solar was extra cussed and protracted. It was robust and affected person, not coercive or manipulative, however trustworthy and trusting it will shine the place and when it was wanted.
Perhaps that’s the place my breath was — tucked behind a nook, the within of my sleeve, the underside of my beanie — ready patiently to exert itself into full airspace. It was the quiet visitor, the unassuming star who needed to wait backstage — anticipate the suitable second to step out into full gentle and presence, and now the stage is ready and the principle attraction has arrived.
The baton is up, the hand lifts, and the ultimate act is about to begin.
Right here we go on this last stretch the place breath meets bone and stone below toes that float and flutter, go pitter-patter, rat-a-tat-tat on the asphalt of this lined Earth. One raise after which one other the place muscle tissues are in demand and vitality of breath of oxygen, this most significant ingredient to push and pull, to realize yet one more step, yet one more inch, pull it out, all of the stops, for this second in time, the possibility to bounce as soon as once more for all the cash, for all of the solar, for all of the glory after which truly, none.
The present is within the grace and within the face of a well-earned end, within the magic of motion, the thriller of breath, the way it eludes us and surprises us time and time once more, to thrill us to our personal victory, this crescendo of clapping for our personal soul when nobody else is in sight, when there’s nothing on the road, when nobody will seize on any gadget, make a report of it.
This — our personal blessed being hovering by the air one millisecond at a time, when face catches wind and cheeks are held in crispy chilly and our last breaths, our most stentorian cheerleader.
Our breath, a give and a take, a take and a tug, a catch and a stumble,
A two-step and a waltz, suddenly and by no means once more.
This breath and this breath,
of figuring out and never, of crest and cascade,
of descend and climb, no time to cavort, no acquiesce,
solely a give up to reality in all complexity,
no power, solely movement
onward, upward, and past,
staying true to breath, to its coming and going,
to its neverending continuum.
The writer, discovering her breath on a street run. Picture courtesy of Angie Funtanilla.
