1. It's the loud rumble of thunder that wakes me. It feels misplaced. Isn't this winter? Thunder doesn't belong here.

2. The light reflection off the wet pavement. Everything is so quiet.

3. I am trying not to yell at them. I sound like I am hissing every word.

4. Car wash sounds. Big glue strips of something slamming against and rolling over the car. No vision. I see why this is scary.

5. I think he is taking me to lunch to see if it will perk me up. My silence makes him uncomfortable. I fill up on a glass of champagne and a burger, one scoop of sea salt caramel ice cream in a cone. The mist is hitting my face.

6. That feeling of thinking all the things and yet thinking nothing at the same time. 

7. I remember when I had a regular yoga practice—90 minutes twice a week, sometimes three, and how at peace I was. It was the movement and the breath and the quiet. It was the comfort of routine: pouring myself a cup of weak coffee into a Styrofoam cup before heading up the stairs to the studio; placing that cup of coffee on the windowsill by the radiator; unrolling my mat; staring out the window to look out on the world below; sitting on my mat drinking the weak coffee and centering myself before class began; then intentional focus on my body and my breath. The kind of dedicated awareness. I don't know why I'm thinking of this now. It feels like there is no time for this.

8. This group of 1st graders can actually play. Maybe even better than my 4th graders from last session. I tell myself that next time I volunteer to do something like this, I'll take the lead. No more assisting. 

9. Chicken Tortilla Soup at 8:30pm. 

10. At least the bathrooms are clean.