A few weeks ago, I took the kids to a Yoga class. Parents are encouraged to not stay and watch (which I totally support; it distracts the kids).
I went downstairs to the waiting area. I opened my laptop to write and discovered a dead battery (and also discovered no power cord). I sighed and searched for my trusty paper and pen. Once I located them, I wrote the old way. I still love writing with pen and paper–the sound of my Uni-ball scratch-scratch-scratching at the thick paper wraps me in a meditative state. After about 20 minutes, my notebook held some lovely thick, black lines tracing the inner-workings of my mind.
At 5:30, I went back upstairs to retrieve the kids. They were still finishing up their class, so I stealthily peered in through the window. I watched Henry and Abby relax into Savasana; their mats lay next to each other and they lay atop their mats.
I watched as Abby reached her hand between the two mats, feeling for Henry’s hand. I watched as Abby’s hand found its target. I watched as Henry’s hand opened and their hands joined. I stared, quite dumbfounded.
Through misty eyes, I fumbled for my phone. I felt through my pockets, through my gym bag. Oh quick, hurry Denise, find your phone get the Camera up and capture the moment before its gone.
I finally found it. I snapped the picture, through the thick glass window:
Just seconds later, their teacher turned off the lights.
Earlier this week, a friend and I talked about those moments, these moments, that catch us unaware. They float up like soap bubbles, luminescent and shiny, comingling with the sun’s rays. I often gasp at the simplistic beauty of a bubble–it surprises me time and time again. I watch it, willing it to stay. But inevitably, the purpley, translucent sphere floats away. The only thing left is the gossamer memory of its short tenure, traces of its diaphanous grace.