Letter to my own breath

Dear breath of mine,

I am writing to you at eleven at night, with a stack of half-graded notebooks on the desk and a glass of ginger tea gone cold at the edge. Strange, isn't it, that after forty-five years this is the first time I have written to you. I feel a little silly. But the pen is already in my hand, so I will keep going.

I know you are there all day. At recess, when the school drum sounds and thirty-eight children pour out into the yard, you are there. When I finish reading a parent's message with the phone still in my hand and my throat gone tight, you are there too. Some days I only notice by the last period that I have been holding you in since noon, like a sigh I never got round to letting out.

Once a child looked up from her notebook:
"Teacher, why do you keep sighing?"
"When did I sigh?"
"You sighed three times just now."

She counted. I did not. That moment made me think more than I expected. All day you go with me, you sigh on my behalf when I do not dare to, and still I am the one who is always scolding you.

I have to admit this. When I was nervous, I asked why you were so rushed. When I was tired and you came shallow and quick, I called you inconsiderate. The first few times I tried to meditate, I even begged you to be deep, even, smooth, like making a toddler who has just learned to walk step in a straight line. You never talked back. It turns out you were only following me.

I am sorry for those times, and thank you for staying. Not a grand thank you. Just the kind I would say to the person beside me at a parents' meeting when she passes me a cup of water without being asked.

There is also something I have never said: I do not know what you are. I teach children their letters, I cannot teach anyone how to breathe, and nobody showed me when I was small. All I know is that when I pay attention to you, sometimes everything softens a little, sometimes you feel heavier and strange, and sometimes nothing happens at all. I will not ask you to do anything for me.

I will promise only a few small things. I promise not to demand that you be deep, slow, or even. If you are hurried one day, I will let you be hurried. If I forget you until the last period, I will simply remember, say "hello, you," and not blame myself. And if one day you make me feel something odd, I will stop, not push, and ask someone who knows.

Tonight, before I close the notebooks, I will sit still for one more breath. Just one.

May you be at ease, the way I wish it for the little ones in my class.

Me, the one behind the half-graded notebooks

A letter can be written freely, but there is one thing I want to say plainly to you as a reader. When you begin to notice your breath, if you feel dizzy, short of breath, tightness in the chest, or tingling in your hands, stop right away and do not push. Put the pen down, go back to breathing normally as you always do, and sit still until you feel settled. If it happens again, or it worries you, please see a doctor to rule out a physical cause. I cannot explain why it happens, and this letter cannot replace a professional.

And if you would like to write a letter of your own, it does not have to be good, and nobody will read it but you: