I arrive home at lunchtime with a 30-minute break from work. I am hassled and frazzled and tired. I dump some leftovers in a saucepan while washing the breakfast dishes, starting a load of laundry, and cleaning up the newspapers scattered on the dining room table.
That’s when I see the patch of sunlight, and the yogi.
He can’t cross his legs as human meditators do, but instead sits like a Sphinx, front legs straight ahead, beautiful gold and white furry chest held straight and proud. His neck rises a bit as he faces me and holds my green eyes into his chocolate brown ones. The expression is wise and all-knowing, and I can hear his thoughts immediately:
Why don’t you calm down, for heaven’s sake?
The sun is basking his body in heat and light, and his mouth opens to pant. But actually he is trying to say something to me, like:
Stop. Look. Listen. Life is only this. Stop. Look. Listen.
The timer buzzes, but I ignore it and sit down next to my dog, stroking the warm fur. I feel the sun melt my tense muscles, my frayed nerves, and my buzzing brain. I breathe deeply and . . .
Slowly, I also become one with the day.
At least for a few minutes.