That's when it hit me. The thing I've been saying to people for fifteen years: "Don't try to control your breath. Just notice it." I'd been teaching this like it was a technique, a method. But sitting there watching the river, I understood it differently. It's not about technique. It's about trust.

The river doesn't question if it's flowing correctly. It doesn't compare itself to yesterday's river, or to rivers in meditation books. It just flows. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Sometimes smooth, sometimes choppy. Always itself.

I stopped trying to breathe "better." I let my breath be short and tight. I let my mind be cluttered. I let myself be exactly as stressed and imperfect as I was. And after a few minutes—I don't know how many—something shifted. Not because I made it shift. But because I stopped trying to.

My breath deepened on its own. Not dramatically. Not like some meditation breakthrough. Just... it got a little easier. The tightness in my chest loosened maybe five percent. My thoughts still jumped around, but with slightly more space between them.

This is what I mean when I say the river taught me about breathing. Not through metaphor or philosophy. Through direct demonstration. Water moves like water. Breath moves like breath. Both follow their nature when you stop interfering.

I've been sitting on this porch almost every morning for three years. Usually I'm inside my head, planning my day, rehearsing conversations, thinking about meditation instead of actually meditating. But occasionally—like this morning—the river breaks through my thinking and shows me something true.

Watch the river. If you can let your breath move like water moves—without judgment, without correction, without trying to be anything other than what it is—you're doing it right. —  Iris Yamamoto

Sam, who lives two houses down, practices meditation in his parlor. He's newer to it, learning about breath awareness for the first time. Last week he asked me, "How do you know if you're doing it right?" I didn't have a good answer then. But now I think I'd say: Watch the river. If you can let your breath move like water moves—without judgment, without correction, without trying to be anything other than what it is—you're doing it right.

Wednesday evenings I host informal meditation in my living room. Not teaching, exactly. Just sitting together. Miguel from three doors down comes sometimes, after his early shift at the diner. Maria occasionally joins. We sit for twenty minutes, maybe thirty. I used to give instruction, guidance. Now I mostly just say: "Let your breath be however it is."

Because here's what the river taught me: Resistance is sometimes the practice. Fighting your tight breath is the practice. Noticing that you're fighting is the practice. Letting it be tight while wishing it were different is the practice. All of it counts. All of it is meditation.

The river doesn't meditate. It just flows. But watching it flow—watching it be exactly what it is without apology or effort—that's taught me more about breathing than twenty years of formal practice.

It's 6:47 now. The tea's cold. The light has fully shifted to morning. The river is still moving, still not caring whether it's flowing correctly. And my breath is still short and tight, but I'm not fighting it anymore. Maybe tomorrow it'll be different. Maybe it won't. Either way, I'll be back on this porch, watching the river, learning the same lesson again.