Today I pulled out my meditation bench, set the timer and prepared for my morning sitting.
Today it was very dark in the room where I sit, storm clouds gathering, ready to release rain.
Today I did not have the blinds open. I could not see the leafy branches just beyond the windows.
Today I kept my eyes closed, which is the way it should be each day, but some days I can't help turning my eyes toward the sky and trees.
Today it was very quiet outside while I sat. Sometimes this is not the case.
Today I heard no bird song, no squirrel chatter, no walkers' conversations, no creek sounds of water flowing over rocks. Perhaps everything was holding its breath before the storm.
Today I wondered, was I holding my breath as well? Or was I remembering to breathe in, pause, breathe out, pause. Sometimes I forget to breathe. Sometimes I forget to pause.
Today I found my sister's face floating in my mind's eye. Perhaps because of yesterday's late afternoon conversation about her upcoming performance piece, Seven Disappearances.
Today I found myself imagining the disappearance of my sister herself. I tried to let the thought come and then flow out of me, but it wouldn't.
Today I thought of disappearances in my life. The easy ones of my meditation breaths every morning. The hard ones of deaths of family and friends.
Today I thought about the disappearances I talked of with my sister. Of mud dissolving in water, of ice melting into the ground, of food chewed and swallowed, of words written in ink gradually becoming invisible, of soap bubbles rising on the breeze and vanishing, of the notes of songs released into the air and fading away.
Today I thought of my mother, whose sense of her self has slowly disappeared into her dementia.
Today all these thoughts came and went in the pauses between my breaths.
Today I wondered where the thoughts actually went. And then I reminded myself not to dwell on thinking, but to just breathe.
Today I could hear echoes from yoga pranayama practice on how to use fingers to keep track of breaths.
Today my fingers felt restless in their usual meditation position.
Today my fingers wanted to grasp at all that was slipping through them, of my life that was disappearing — both during breaths but also during the pauses.
Today I wondered whether the pauses could help me hold on to the moment.
Today I wondered if slowing my breathing, lengthening the pauses, could help me slow down the passing of time.
Today I wondered what of my life I might be missing while I sat and breathed.
Today I wondered what of my life was held suspended in the pauses.
Today I wondered about my father's last breaths, the pauses lengthening until that's all there was.
Today I wondered if it would fall to me to count the last breaths of my sisters, or would they count mine?
Today I wondered if it would help if I could learn to synchronize my breaths with those of my sisters.
Today I remembered the quiet mornings when my cat would lie on my lap, breathing in and breathing out.
Today I wondered where all those breaths had gone: mine, my cat's, my sisters', my father's.
Today I thought about all the pauses, all those moments of not breathing.
Today I wondered if those pauses were a reminder of mortality, of the long pause lying somewhere in my future.
But for today, it was just a long moment, seven breaths perhaps.
Then came the gentle chimes of my timer and life resumed.
* The phrase "just a long moment, seven breaths perhaps" comes from "The Dam," by John Milton Oliver, and appears in the poetry collection Pine Street Poets, edited by Meg Reynolds and John Milton Oliver
