The Breath
Read or listen to discover what can happen when we finally slow down enough to take a breath.
Feel free to read or listen to discover your breath—and what arises.
My dad would always tell me, “Slow down, Smokey—take a breath.”
Yeah, he knew me well—better than I thought… maybe better than himself. I wish I knew that back then.
Although I was a quiet little boy, as I grew up, I could get a little passionate at times—my fate determined by a lottery and uniform—not of my own choosing.
Some might say, angry. But that would be dismissing the fear and sadness underneath—and any other emotions that make me human. I wouldn't want to do that—to myself or anyone else.
So I‘ll just say, animated. I like that. It‘s about movement and not being stuck in time and space—or in the space within and between.
Although not easy or simple, who said it was? It’s this space that deserves the greatest focus of my attention these days.
Just so you know what I mean, let’s talk about someone close to my heart who helped me experience what this means. And, will soon help you know it, too.
I call him Yako. He‘s a brilliant musician who can play just about anything by ear—on the piano mostly, but a few other instruments as well. And he knows most of the words—by heart.
But when it comes to relationships, Yako stumbles a bit. He often forgets who he is and what he wants to say. He doesn’t have the script in his head connected to his heart—perhaps not receiving the music in a way he needed early on.
Instead, the words that come out are: “I can’t get my parents upset with me.”
He knows I’m listening with my heart—my instrument of choice that I was born with. I say, “Slow it down, Yako—take a breath. Just hear what the child inside is telling you.”
He graciously replies, “Let me show you. Then we’ll both know—together.”
Yako stands tall like a quiet prince, not needing applause. He starts dancing, his graceful body moving in all directions to a rhythm of his own. It’s an expressive dance I’ve never seen before—hard to describe.
It takes my breath away. Tears arise inside and out—I don’t know why. Although we’re apart, it feels like I’m dancing with him. Not intentional, but I trust that it’s okay.
Yako starts to slowly call out numbers with a breath within and between: 9–1–3–8–9–2–7… Silence. Then there are more… 6–2–4… They seem pretty random to me, but not to him.
The rhythm is oddly settling. It feels like I’m in a trance.
Then, he stops.
I’m not sure what to say or do. Returning to the safety of silence—the breath. Breathing together. Not spinning. Slowing down the world within and between—just us.
Our eyes meet—a loving gaze and smile. His words follow and linger: “Thank you dear Marco… now you know what I’ve been hiding.”
Rivers of tears allow the years of loss and trauma to rewind and play forward.
Yako continues: “Those were my parents’ numbers at Auschwitz. That’s all I ever saw, but I felt their pain. I had to be quiet—invisible. That’s what they had to do to survive.”
Catching my breath, I gently respond, “The music in your heart gave you light. It showed you a path to the life you always deserved.”
And finally—it took Yako back home—not to an empty house, but to a home of warmth and light.
In silence: for my dear friend, Jerry Frankel—“Yako.”
I take a breath, and the words flow… Salutatorian Riverside High School, Yale graduate, musician and composer.
Born in Buffalo, New York, to survivors of the Holocaust. Died of AIDS at the age of 34—two years after winning the first modern-day Jeopardy Tournament of Champions.
A life cut off before his time—and for ours with him.
Turning to all of you—just breathe and listen to your heart... Remember the music in your Core Self that you were born with. Let it play on and on. Be your own champion of healing, a light for all of us that is so much needed right now—once again.
In the moment, the words Jerry wrote in my high school yearbook ring out a sound of truth: “Marco—you’re a person who is easy to talk to... We’re both going away next year, but I won’t let it all end now. Live your life well. Peace and joy—Love, Yako.”
Yes, my dear Hamnet... I remember our talks, too. Like an hourglass breathing through time, it’s not the beginning or the end that sticks. It’s the space within and between… the breath that matters most—especially for Smokey, and the man he grew up to be.
Tomorrow‘s just another day. The breath will take us home—finding more in the light of invisibility.
We won’t let it all end now, my friend. There’s still more light. Listening to the breath. Always here—in heart.
Love, Marco
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Tribute: This essay is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend, Jerry Frankel. Never a client, but like those I sit with in pain—who carry so much within and between—he holds a special place in my heart. Many of you may identify with our journey together, because our lives so often echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
About the author: Marc Cecil is a doctoral-level licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. An experienced psychotherapist, supervisor, consultant, and teacher, Marc uses an integrated-experiential model grounded in our capacity for adaptive change to help people heal from complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma.
Dr. Cecil lives in Vermont near the shores of Lake Bomoseen, where his heartfelt stories and images of connection arise from the light of invisibility—bringing life to therapy and therapy to life.