My life,
full of dreams and designs,
distilled to one essential duty:
Just breathe.
It sounds simple.
You might scoff,
roll your eyes, even.
But each morning I wake up,
before I say a little prayer,
I breathe.
Just breathe.
My life
in the Salt Lake Valley
isn’t simple.
Our skies rival
an unvented kitchen;
smoke trapped and stale,
summer wildfires,
stir the air
into a chunky, smoky soup.
Each breath, a cautious slurp
from the soup bowl.
Yet, I survive,
assisted by purifiers
and filters.
I have to.
I have to
just breathe.
Just breathe.
Political spite,
so acid,
burns my throat
down to the lungs.
Reading the trending news
chokes my chest.
I gasp and cough
the fumes of the bitter fire.
I need to take time,
to just breathe.
Just breathe.
My coping strategy:
lap swimming.
I find peace in the water,
rhythmic breath,
synchronized survival.
There, the outside air
is refined by clean water.
My lungs empty the trash
and fill with hope.
In the pool I can breathe.
Just breathe.
My focus:
When gray skies gather,
just breathe.
When muck obscures the sun,
just breathe.
When chest and lungs are about to burst,
just breathe.
Just breathe.
