Keep it simple gif cracked#

Keep it simple gif cracked#

The train sputters and rolls away from the station and a rush of air circulates blissfully through cracked windows. I open my eyes to check on my daughter, who, with eyes still closed, seems to have steadied herself, as well. Slowly, the panicky feelings subside, moving out like the tide. Rivulets of sweat repeatedly usurp my tenuous attention. I wonder, yearningly, when will this end? Longingly, I imagine the sweet relief of cool air. I usher my attention back to the rising and falling of my belly. I notice and, as best I can, accept the current body sensations as they are. My attention darts to the prominent feeling of pressure in my chest. I ease my shoulders downward, unknit my brow, and observe the natural rising and falling of my lower abdomen. Instinctively, I close my eyes and fall back on the meditation practice with which I’ve begun my mornings for the last fourteen years. Falling.Īt a primal, maternal level, I intuit that she is depending on me to remain calm and steady for us both. I close my eyes and fall back on the meditation practice with which I’ve begun my mornings for the last fourteen years. I reassure her that we will be on our way soon and hope I sound more convincing than I feel, for I, too, am struggling. In a whispered voice, I firmly instruct her to close her eyes and take deep breaths, lengthening each exhale. I peer over at my seventeen-year-old daughter and watch nervously as her eyes grow gradually wide, my mind quickly registering her expression-she is teetering on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I glimpse it in the eyes of the college-aged backpacker seated across from me, so close his knees nearly touch mine, and in the young mother’s fruitless fanning of her little one. My fellow travelers become increasingly restless, wipe wet brows, and shift uneasily in narrow seats, their discomfort leaning threateningly toward desperation. Over the crackling overhead speaker, the conductor announces what we’ve already surmised-a delayed departure. The sweltering humidity bears down upon us, sweat slowly beading up before sliding down my face, neck, chest, and back.

In the midst of this Paris summer heat wave, the air outside is just as thick, oppressive, and oxygen-deprived as it is inside. A young mother attempts in vain to open a window, able to budge it only a crack.

I look around a bit frantically at the other passengers packed tightly in the old train car. It’s hard to breathe the air enveloping us is hot, stagnant.