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Breathing by David Mendenhall 3:50 a.m. Catching the remnant orange light that rises above pre-dawn Burlington, gray clouds hover in the black outside our bedroom windows. I stare at our darkened ceiling, awake. Listening. Out the window, I watch the black silhouette black. Willows breathe cool breeze. Merrick's cries echo along the maple floorboards of the hallway, shaking the November air of this old house, find their way into the bedroom. I wait. 3:55. Jenny's arm searches haphazardly behind her, across the comforter, and gives me a gentle shove. I swing my feet to the floor, rub my eyes with my palms. "On Saturday..." I grumble. Peeking through the cracked opening of the door, I see her tiny body standing at the bars of her crib. "Merrick," I say, both our eyes slits, like the doorway in the dim morning, "Daddy was supposed to sleep in today. I mean, c'mon. Is five a.m. crazy?" She rubs her eyes and lets out a wail. I pick her up and we walk down the stairs. Twenty minutes pass. Six geese fly through morning sky. Soon it is an hour, Then two. All morning I listen to Merrick breathe. All morning, I breathe. Years later, we walk hand and hand, hunting salamanders in her grandparents’ gardens. She is four and wants to catch things, living things. "Do we have to catch them?" I query. "Maybe we could just watch them. Maybe just watching them would be even better. I mean, it's gotta be hard being such a little thing and getting caught in a net all the time. I bet it gives them nerves. You don't want a bunch of nervous frogs and stuff running around, do you?" She puts hands to hips and stares at me. "Daddy, come on." I take the net reluctantly. Salamander stays still, frozen on grey stone's edge. August dusk falls orange. "Daddy, get it!" she hollers, her small four-year-old body perched on the slate like a fledgling raptor. "Just a second," I murmur and hold up my open palm. The salamander spooks and slithers beneath the dark surface of water. "Awwww." My own eyes un-focus. The reflection of my finger traces the surface until its image overlays the tail of the submerged amphibian. Merrick quiets. Still. Her eyes big. I lay down the tattered white mesh net. Beyond reflections, we and three salamanders relax together. I breathe. Merrick takes my hand. Aikido arises, like images through water. Sometimes I catch glimpses of aikido in me. And then many times not. Balance, harmony. Discord, dissonance. Merrick will freak out in a supermarket or library or at school tomorrow or the next day or the next week. Jenny and I will bicker over something. And I will realize that I cannot control my daughter’s actions. I will realize that I cannot make my wife love me, only that she does. I can keeping looking for balance. I can keep training, where I often lose that balance, where I find myself with heavy ukemi, bad knees, frustration and elation: where I find myself wanting, many days, to be the best - to throw bigger, to take higher, lighter falls, to join an intensive training program. And sometimes, those desires seem opposite having a family: the 3 a.m. feedings, the fevers, the tantrums, the hugs, the first words, first steps. That means being there, mentally and physically, instead of the dojo, instead of on the mat. But there are those moments between the waves, within the wind, when the two are one. When aikido arises within my family. Pema Ch'dr'n, the Buddhist nun, writes often, in one variation or another, about the wisdom of no escape. About expecting nothing and giving up all hope of fruition. But I don’t think it’s defeatist. Like ukemi, it’s about presence, commitment: giving completely, but not surrendering to defeat. Then what is it? I don’t know. I know that when I fall, I get up. I know that in August I went out looking for salamanders with Merrick. I know that on Thanksgiving I took a nap with my son, Simon. I know that today I write these words and there is an empty space in my coffee mug and Jenny reads quietly in our bed. These are the moments that slip through my fingers and mean everything to me. I cannot collect them. Some days I want desperately to hold them, but I can’t. And, really, I do not want to. If I were to hold too tightly to what "was," I'd miss the present. I only want to live. I only want to breathe. Sometimes that’s on the mat. A lot of time that’s at home. And with some moments, I’m at home on the mat. And more and more, the "mat" and aikido and how I live my life arat home with me.