The house was dark except for a small lamp giving a shadowy glow over no more then half of the room. The house was free of any ambient noise, free from the volume of daily life.

As I sat gently rocking back in forth, I found I was more present in a singular moment then I had been in a long time. It’s strange days and weeks can pass by and I can honestly say I’m not sure if I was present for any of it. I was of course present in the sense that we are always physically somewhere, but not present in the cognizant sense.

Minutes before Max had cried out the way he often does. He was in pain, not the rush to the hospital pain but pain none the less. The type of pain that can only be comforted by a mom or a dad.

As I held my son in my arms gently rocking it was with an intense presence. I was not thinking about the future or the past, about joy or pain. It was if I was identifying with each second as it passed by. The minutes seemed never ending. It was as if I had unknowingly tapped into a new area of my psyche and emotions. You often hear chefs talk about tasting the individual components of a dish as if they were never mixed at all. They gush about the joy of tasting each ingredient separately on their refined palate, rather then the way most people taste food as the end result of the mixed ingredients. I had become a chef of time, every second seemed to be exploding with life. It wasn’t long before I laid Max back down in bed, the awareness and presence was gone and time began once again moving in its blended form.