Placing a chair back in its place on the front porch at the day’s end, I saw a phone’s light bobbing through the lawn. Unable to see who it was—and assuming it was Dave—I called out, “Who’s there?”
“Hudson,” came the reply. My nephew. He was coming to take Grandma and Grandpa’s car back next door.
The ease of this kind of communal living—shared dinners, noticing who’s where, whose car is whose—is part of the fun. As I positioned the chair just so, he asked, “You like things just right, huh?”
The wannabe interior designer in me swirled with control and perfection—the way spaces can feel magically curated because of it. I scanned the area. “Yes, I do.”
“Kind of hard with a six-year-old, though,” he said.
I didn’t disagree, but I added, “I have a bit of room for chaos.”
After placing a period on that sentence, I walked back to the chair I’d angled and straightened it. Something about the angle made the space feel less soothing, less inviting.
What is it about the external world—its order, its flow, its arrangement—that lights me up?
The Port Orleans Riverside resort at Disney had that effect. Everywhere I looked—ferns, palms, lush grasses, a curving river running through—it felt like visual therapy. After a long, overstimulating day at a park, returning there—among turtles, fish, and egrets—brought me back to center. It was lovely.
Most importantly, I have an empty suitcase. That thing will usually sit for weeks post-vacation before it makes its way back to the closet shelf, and in the meantime, I’ll pull clothes from it like it’s a second dresser. Strangely, I’m connecting this shift—actually unpacking—to mindful breathing. The steady rhythm of five counts in, five counts out, which I started a couple of days ago, is giving me more energy.
Without my mind dragging its feet or narrating every move with resistance, I can just do. Like earlier, wiping down the kitchen cabinets—freeing them of food splatters and grime. I saw it, and instead of avoiding it, I did it.
That said, extending the breath to six or seven counts pushes me into a mild panic. The longer breaths feel like my hands are tied behind my back and Captain Hook is pressing a sword into me. It’s the weirdest thing—and I hate it. Still, I’m curious if it’s just a kink that will loosen with practice.
It’s Thich Nhat Hanh’s idea to lengthen the breath, a challenge to readers in his book on mindfulness. He also sees the breath as a bridge to the present moment and that’s stayed with me. I love being present. I love being calm and flexible, rolling with the punches. Life’s twists and turns are inevitable—and to meet them like a quiet ninja, grounded in peace, feels like the way I want to live.
So, I’ll make sure to keep practicing breathing – in bed at night and when I wake up, and sporadically throughout the day. Because it feels like love, and love is what I want to be.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 