At dawn Tildy trots to the meditation room. 

A small bundle of tossed, white curls 

     ears, nose, tail — 

signposts pointing to the sky. 

She has her own chair. 

We watch as she eyes it carefully, 

leaps up, turns around once, 

settles into the orange cushion. 

Like a conductor 

she lifts her chin 

looks towards our teacher. 

     Permission to begin. 

Music leads us. 

We sink into our breath 

     deeper    deeper 

but some of us hear 

the clitter of toenails 

on the floor. 

Finally called back 

we blink, wriggle toes and fingers. 

Tildy is curled on the mat 

     all liquid bones and fluff. 

We gather our belongings, 

slide open the door. 

Coming Tildy? 

Tildy cocks one ear. 

Her eyes open in gentle reproach. 

You lot go on, she seems to say, 

I have hours more meditation

to get through this morning.

Beverley Sweeney (on Meditation Retreat)