I was in a yoga class a couple of years ago with an older man who would hack and rattle cough all over his mat, from Ojibway breaths straight through Namaste. During one of these classes, in an all-too-rare moment of silence, the instructor told us to stop and be present. To breathe and focus on the very moment.

I made myself try, fluffy as it sounded, to feel instead of think through what being present meant. My ass was sore from downward dogs, my mouth was dry, and I was very sure that coffee would only make it drier but I was craving a cup anyways. Then, out of nowhere, I started to record exactly where I was, like I used to as a kid.

Growing up, I would make myself really take note of random moments. I went cross-country skiing in middle school and memorized a particular pine tree I slid past. I put shoes in our front closet and breathed until I could remember how the house smelled, like a mix of toast and carpet and Mr. Clean. I told myself to remember what that one tree looked like, what it was like to live in the house I grew up in. And I sort of do.