A Measure of Breath

I noticed the silk scarf draped across the low stool had slipped, trailing an irregular wave onto the floor. Instead of immediately fixing it into a rigid line, I paused. Precision does not always mean tension. I sat cross-legged upon the dark floorboards before the mirror, letting my posture soften by half a count. I picked up a smooth brass thimble and placed it balanced upside down upon the flat toe of my boot. Keeping my shoulders relaxed, I regulated my cadence—inhaling for four counts, holding for four, exhaling for four. The brass thimble did not waver. Stillness, I found, holds its own discipline.