I used to think boundaries meant choosing between his needs and mine. This morning, I finished my sentence, helped my dad with an upside-down wrist brace, pointed him toward the chandelier, and discovered something quieter: I can love him without leaving myself.

I wanted to go. It was such a simple desire. My son could take care of himself. My father couldn’t. So I didn’t choose according to what I wanted. I chose according to who needed me. And then the dream put my father on a plane I couldn’t board.

I have discovered a strange little meditation: coffee, a notebook, and Alfred North Whitehead before the rest of the house wakes. Somewhere between “the many” and “the one,” I began to see how an experience ends—and how my analysis of it can become an entirely new experience. Perhaps peace isn’t always found by emptying the mind. Sometimes it comes from giving the mind something vast enough to inhabit.