In the dead of night when the whole house has settled into taking the soft, gentle breaths of repose, I have lain awake and listened. It has become a mediation of sorts, this listening. Everything recedes into the soft, dark blurriness of night and I can hear myself, my blood coursing, my muscles releasing their hold on the day, my thoughts being put in order. I listen and feel. A certain loneliness is attached to my act of meditation because it is, by necessity, done in solitude, a solitary practice in which my secret self obliterates my public self and the multi-act plays I perform for the world. It is in that space—with my body stilled, my heart beats slowed—that I listen. I listen to recognize terror so that I can release it and not have to relive it in my dreams. I listen to recognize beauty, so that I can grab it with both hands and hold it close. In the end like a miracle, I am recreated.