I notice the twinkle in 5-year-old Neville’s eyes and I figure he’s found a spider, or another grub, and wants to teach me how to hold it without squirming . . . . or screaming.
Three minutes later: “Madre, please. I want to teach you something.”
“As soon as I help clear the dishes,” I say to hold him off. The other adults around the table shoot me sympathetic glances. Neville is known for his love of Lego lectures, Go Fish card marathons, and arm wrestling matches.
Four minutes later: “Madre! Now!”
Neville grabs my hand and pulls me into the house, past the kitchen, and on to a darkened hallway. I inhale. Boy things. What’s he going to show me? A new karate kick? A grasshopper stuck in a plastic container? How to hold a lobster?
Instead, the young boy sinks gracefully to the floor in one motion, legs crossed, elbows bent on his knees, thumb and index finger curled in the yogic position of letting go.
“This is called the Lotus,” he whispers with reverence. The twinkle in his eyes has become downright spiritual. “Breathe In. Breathe Out.”
The 5-year-old watches me with one eye open, the other closed in solemn serenity. “Namaste,” he intones.
“Namaste,” I agree.