The rise and fall of a child’s breath
I have started meditating. Why? The usual, and the not-so-usual. Work stress, the habit of distraction, children separated from their parents at our borders. Meditation is a good thing; it helps, at least to the degree one can be helped when one feels helpless. But I am not at all good at meditation, though I’m told no one finds themselves adept without quite a bit of practice, and I’ve had little so far. You find moments of concentration, separated by swaths of continued distraction and frequent self-questioning. Why on earth would anyone focus on their breath for twenty minutes straight? It’s the most boring thing in the world. Why do people do this?
And then yesterday, on a plane, my daughter leaned over and put her head in my lap. With one of my arms under her head and the other stretched out across her back as it gently rose and fell, I noticed the rhythm of her breath slow and change. Memory kicked in, and I could read the pattern and follow her journey into sleep, as I used to do when I would watch her every breath or feel it on my chest as she fell asleep when she was little. It was a regular cadence, but nuanced. Predictable, yet entirely compelling. The most beautifully interesting thing in the world. There was no need to concentrate on the breath; it was the only thing I could possibly do.
Those kids and parents separated at the border — I don’t have much to add to the outrage, except this: We are depriving them of everything that matters, starting with the rise and fall of their children’s breath.
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