At dawn Tildy trots to the meditation room. A small bundle of tossed, white curls ears, nose, tail — 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) |
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