Breathing fast and slow

When I held the door open last week for a mother of two toddlers, both seated in a stroller on steroids, I was performing a very small act of kindness. I recognized that look of fatigue on the mother's face. I saw, too, that she was entirely capable of navigating her children through public spaces in the over-sized stroller; but, there I was, standing right next to the door she was aiming to exit. It was natural to offer this gesture of camaraderie--mothers-in-arms, you know. So, I held the door for her, and as she accepted the gesture and passed through--obviously appreciative of the few seconds of unencumbered bliss--she thanked me and added, "That was really very nice of you." It is a truth about the world. We often go unrecognized for our daily efforts. How could it be otherwise, right? One person's feat of courage or kindness or tireless perseverance can look to another as a simple matter of rising from one's bed at the appointed hour. I try not to seek rec

"The earth is a church floor whereupon  In the middle of a glorious night  Walks a slave, weeping, tied to a rope behind a horse,  With a speechless rider  Taking him toward the unknown."                     -- Hafiz The earth is a church floor whereupon I have placed my mat. On that mat, I have learned to place my hands and my knees, my arms and my legs. Front body. Back body. They have been laid there, too. I have trained my forehead to come to rest on forearms, on shins, in the cradle I am told to practice making of my feet. Almost like a cup I could drink from in the desert if I had to. These bare soles, I have placed upon my mat, on the earth, where I have prayed in a church of slow motion through the minutes of many hours. I have learned to wait for those hours to teach my breath what it is I might do next. It whispers, "Here is another lesson for the heart." I practice not growing weary.  Simon says, "Your will knows no end in me," and