One Small Step

In Abbo's Alley late this afternoon, an English professor led her class in what appeared to be silent meditation.  I stifled myself when I happened on this blossom, unexpected and fresh despite the strong wind and 30-degree weather.  Like the students pacing slowly, looking down, silent, I too took my time and erased thought.

In the 1970s, I learned Transcendental Meditation in a blue stucco duplex on New Orleans' Napoleon Avenue, not far from Baptist Hospital.  After a number of group lessons, I brought my handkerchief and offering, participated in a surprisingly moving ceremony, received my mantra from my teacher, and lost myself in private meditation.

Taking pictures -- plenty of bad ones and an occasional pleasing one -- has now become my form of meditation.  With my camera, I am never alone even without companions: I feel my breath and hear the creatures, feel the brush of dragonfly wings, see the smallest birds skipping from bank to bank along the leaf-strewn creek, and am happy.

I hope the students in the professor's class left the Alley happy, too.