Breathe

There comes a point where words naturally fall away.

Not because something is missing,

but because nothing more is needed.

After all the noticing,

after the quiet recognitions,

after the long-held vigilance has been gently seen,

there is often a simple stillness that remains.

Not empty.

Not expectant.

Just present.

This is not a conclusion.

Nothing is being wrapped up here.

Nothing is being resolved or explained.

This is a place.

A place where the body no longer feels watched.

Where the chest is no longer waiting for instruction.

Where the breath is not monitored, adjusted, or improved.

It simply is.

You may notice the sound of it now.

Not because you were asked to listen,

but because everything else has gone quiet enough for it to be heard.

The soft arrival of air.

The gentle leaving of it.

This sound was always here.

Even in the seasons of holding.

Even when effort felt necessary.

Even when rest felt unsafe.

Nothing new has been added.

What changed was the absence of pressure.

Breath does not need permission.

It only needs safety.

And safety does not arrive through reassurance.

It arrives when nothing bad happens as you stop holding yourself together.

There is nothing fragile about this moment.

Nothing that needs to be protected.

Nothing that will disappear if attention drifts.

What remains does not depend on awareness.

It does not require faithfulness.

It does not ask to be maintained.

It carries itself.

You are not doing this correctly or incorrectly.

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are simply here.

And here is enough.

Breath continues because life is being sustained.

Not by your effort.

Not by your vigilance.

Not by your awareness.

By God.

The same One who breathed life at the beginning

is still breathing life now.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

Without demand.

Nothing more is required.

Nothing more is coming.

This is not an ending.

It is a resting place.

Breathe.