385

I say, "Uh huh, yeah. Okay," so that you know that I heard you. But I don't believe you.

384

I'm taking an old page from your book. (I know you don't mind and won't notice.)

383

The way she picks up items as if they were weapons.

382

His initials would follow me. I didn't know for how long.

381

"See it works. Here's proof," she said, holding the glimmering threads of her thoughts. "My mind works," she said to the empty room.

380

In the spinning, I forget you. In stopping, I remember.

379

I've been dancing to traditional Greek folk music since I was eight years old. There's one dance we call the Bulgarian (probably because it's more Bulgarian than Greek in style). It's fast. It moves in a circle, not just to the right but to the left, too.

It's my favorite dance because there's more to it than speed and direction. When I do this dance with a small group, six or eight people, and we can keep a tight circle, I start to feel like I can float above the ground—not constantly, but in moments. Between tapping feet and switching directions, there's a moment when all of our feet are in the air, and the circle in spinning. I feel like I'm watching a carousel, except I'm moving and everything else is standing still.

Then something else happens. The longer we go, the higher we jump, the slower time passes. I hear the beats in the music, but I feel the gap. Somehow, the faster I move, the slower it feels and I can focus on everything I see. Nothing is a blur because I am the movement.

This lasts for three and a half minutes and then our feet stop, exactly on the last beat of the song. I should be catching my breath. (I'm not.) I should feel a bit dizzy from the spinning. (I don't.) The time inside my head and the time of the world sync up again. I leave the floating circle and walking off the stage feels too normal.

378

The way she goes through each day as if it were a chore.
The way she jokes around so you think she's happy.
The way she makes impeccable to do lists—and crosses off each item.

You don't see anything wrong.
You think she's happy here.
You think she's living her life.

She's biding her time.

377

She called them "adults" as if it were an insult.

Thinking Rhythm

Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Bounce...bounce...
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!

Everyday Charlie practiced free throws for half an hour. Everyday, he improved his rhythm. After two weeks, he hardly had to move his feet. He shot the ball, it fell through the net, hit the pole, and bounced back to him.

Charlie, the perpetual motion machine.

He didn't keep count and he wasn't interested in statistics, but he knew his free throw was improving. His average was probably as good as the starters on the school team. Charlie wasn't on the team because he didn't play basketball. Shooting free throws wasn't practice for him.

It was meditation.

Every afternoon, he gave his brain a half hour to sort out his thoughts. Soon, he would need more time than that, but this was his routine. This was his rhythm.

Bounce. Bounce. Swish!