Breathe

That’s what I do. At least I try to remember that breathing is fundamental. The nurses and receptionists on the phone actually issue a mandate, “Breathe Cyndi”. So, I listen, and I do what they say. I have always been good about doing what people say. Generally, I don’t put up a fuss. I defer to the judgement of others in every situation. Not entirely a wise practice. I can not have people steering me in the wrong direction. No questionable choices, please. But I concede there is good advice out there. Like when I am about to blow a fuse. I call the number to book an appointment. I am put on hold for a long 6 minutes. Too long for me. When I explain what I am feeling, the receptionist books the appointment and adds, “Breathe Cyndi”. I guess there is some universal truth to this.

Okay, so I am willing to do as they recommend. Breathing is fundamental, after all. One shouldn’t have to think about it. Right? Sound advice. I breathe deep while I drive, always attuned to the potential for disaster on the roads. I breathe before I go on stage. I have actually been told, “Breathe Cyndi”, by a dance teacher as she watched me move across the floor holding my breath the entire time. I held my breath the years I spent growing up in a dysfunctional home. Too much bellowing and grief. I held my breath counting to 49 while working with difficult teenagers. I am through with holding my breath. Now I breathe.

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