[Editor’s Note: This Community Voices piece is a poem by Angie Funtanilla.]
I found my breath, in the last mile. Where had it been? Had it been hiding?
I found my breath; it came out suddenly like the sun bursting through stubborn clouds that tried to keep it at bay, but the sun was more stubborn and persistent. It was strong and patient, not coercive or manipulative, but faithful and trusting it would shine where and when it was needed.
Maybe that’s where my breath was — tucked behind a corner, the inside of my sleeve, the underside of my beanie — waiting patiently to exert itself into full airspace. It was the quiet guest, the unassuming star who had to wait behind the curtain — wait for the right moment to step out into full light and presence, and now the stage is set and the main attraction has arrived.
The baton is up, the hand lifts, and the final act is about to commence.
Here we go on this final stretch where breath meets bone and stone under feet that float and flutter, go pitter-patter, rat-a-tat-tat on the asphalt of this covered Earth. One lift and then another where muscles are in demand and energy of breath of oxygen, this most vital ingredient to push and pull, to gain one more step, one more inch, pull it out, all the stops, for this moment in time, the chance to dance once again for all the money, for all the sun, for all the glory and then actually, none.
The gift is in the grace and in the face of a well-earned finish, in the magic of movement, the mystery of breath, how it eludes us and surprises us time and time again, to thrill us to our own victory, this crescendo of clapping for our own soul when no one else is in sight, when there’s nothing on the line, when no one will capture on any device, make a record of it.
This — our own blessed being soaring through the air one millisecond at a time, when face catches wind and cheeks are held in crispy cold and our final 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, all at once and never again.
This breath and this breath,
of knowing and not, of crest and cascade,
of descend and climb, no time to cavort, no acquiesce,
only a surrender to truth in all complexity,
no force, only flow
onward, upward, and beyond,
staying true to breath, to its coming and going,
to its neverending continuum.
The author, finding her breath on a road run. Photo courtesy of Angie Funtanilla.
