In the ten minutes before 6 a.m., when New York outside is still dark and frozen, I am pajama-clad and in semi-lotus in my bedroom, perched on a rigid pillow atop a tufted chaise. My palms face upward on my knees. My gaze is downcast and just slightly forward, resting lightly on precarious piles of DVDs and a mad crumple of laundry. But I am not thinking about the dated messiness of my stuff, the slight chill from the window, the creaky inflexibility of my hips, the dryness of my hands, the irrefutable fact that it is still really, really early in the morning. I am counting my cycles of breath. I am silently offering compassion to my mentors and children. I am watching my concerns about love and commitment bubble up and deflate. I am summoning my many to-do lists and then dismissing them. I am counting even more cycles of breath. I am striving for self-awareness. I am waiting for my iPhone to make the sound of a glockenspiel.