My feet are flat on the solid floor.
My body is moving through space.
The subway car rattles.
What is that burning smell?
Meditation for Doing the Dishes
Clatter of bowls.
My four-year-old sorts the silverware
carefully into each compartment.
Perched on a chair, he holds up the basket to show what he has done.
Under my washcloth, stains vanish from the countertop.
Water and soap. My son's soft skin.
Meditation for a Science Guy Who Treats Me Like I'm an Idiot
You're not the first boy to make that assumption.
They were wrong, but I allowed myself to fold inward and stop trying.
Math used to appear to me in visual models.
I was filled with wonder at how explainable it all is and how beautiful.
The pop and click of scientific clarity,
a light switch, a light bulb, a lightness, a freedom: understanding.
A stronger girl would have had light sabers and calculus to defend herself.
I decided I was not good at math.
Take a piece of graph paper.
Do you create a graph, or fold it small?
A paper crane. Peace.
