There is no breathwork without trees, without ocean, without song.

There is no breathwork without trees, without ocean, without song. Breath is a relationship of reciprocity that reminds us we are nature, we are wild. We breathe together with the trees, with the tides. Breath connects us to all that is alive—tree, rain, rock, and sparrow. 

There is no measured metric for breath, only undeniable rhythm. If we cannot sing, perhaps we are afraid to breathe. If we are hesitant to dance, perhaps we are afraid to breathe. 

Breath is effortless, and in a culture that praises achievement and progress, it is difficult to celebrate exactly what we were born to do—breathe. Everyone can do it, it doesn’t make us special; it makes us ordinary. 

We know we’ve collectively lost our breath, and so we do what we do: we invent dozens of ways to breathe “right.” We spend time and money learning how to breathe like the experts breathe, how the gurus breathe, how the forever-youngs breathe. 

I am, it turns out, a mortal. As much as I am alive, I am fading. And all I want to do is sing and dance and listen to the wind in the trees. I’ve never felt more ordinary, and it’s the most expansive place I’ve ever been. Nothing to prove, nothing to improve, and nothing to gain. It’s all enough. Ordinary is enough. Breathing and singing and sitting with the trees, with the tides, with the birds is enough.