The breath was my sole focus. Vipassana entails the integration of sati and upekkha, awareness and equanimity. I forgot about the falcons, caught up instead with my practice, which involved adopting a vegan diet and cooking and preparing most of my meals from scratch. I reveled in experimenting with new recipes and working within the restraints of a vegan regime. Inspired and creative from my time in Bali, cooking vegan meals helped me carry my practice from the retreat into my everyday life. By the time the falcons re-emerged into my consciousness, the Hawk and Owl Trust had terminated their live streaming and there was no way of watching them from afar.

It felt like a loss. Since mid-April I had spent more than a month delighting in their progress, from the time the parents took turns to incubate the eggs till three of them hatched into cotton-white fluffballs. In the early days, they would place one unhatched egg within the centre of their circle, and this gesture broke my heart. Were they protecting their unborn sibling? Were they offering comfort, love and loyalty, saying we still love you, you are still a part of us, we remember you, even though you were never born? There were three chicks, and then there were two. Although it was hard for me to accept that the weakest did not survive, the two kept on. Once, at around 8pm Singapore time, I was fortunate enough to hear one of the adults call their falcon cry over the live camera, over 10,000 kilometers away. I was so excited and ran to tell my partner, and the adult cried out even louder as if in recognition before flying off and leaving the babies behind.

Now, all I saw was a blank screen where the live feed used to be, and a ‘Thank You For Your Support!’ pop-up. I had missed the most significant moment of their lives. It was bittersweet, knowing they had grown up and flown the nest, independent, and unaware of me and my longing. Our lives had moved in opposite directions, and all I could do was accept the sense of aching loss.

On retreat, we spend three days practising anapanasati, mindfulness meditation, focusing on the natural breath entering and leaving the body. We are taught not to control or manipulate the breath, not to alter the way we breathe, but to simply notice the breath as it enters and leaves the body through the nostrils. We learn to focus on the small triangle of the nose and upper lip, to attune ourselves to the sensations within that restricted area. The smaller the area of focus, the sharper the mind becomes. Breathing should come naturally, but I sense so much tension in my body. My lungs expand and contract, and after a while, I notice I am holding my breath. My belly is hard, my palms are cold and my feet are numb. The early morning chill makes it challenging to sit and meditate. I become so aware of my breathing; so aware of the forced quality of my breathing, of my need for control.

Control, release. Anapanasati teaches me to release control of my breath and to trust in the wisdom of my body to breathe naturally, without my intervention. For three days, I sit upright in the dhamma hall or in my room, trying to practice anapanasati, while focusing on the sensations on the small triangle of the nostrils and the upper lip. Itches, tingling, and a feeling of minute vibrations are the most common sensations.

The fourth day is the most challenging as that is the day we are taught vipassana, meditation that purifies the mind. It is doubly challenging as it is the first day of my menstrual cycle, and my body feels weak and in need of tenderness and care. But we are reminded to sit in adhiṭṭhāna, or strong determination, and I surprise myself by being able to sit, seiza-style, on my knees for two hours without changing my posture. We scan the body for any sensation, part by part, piece by piece, from the crown of the head, moving inch by inch to the tips of the toes, and from the tips of the toes to the crown of the head.

Anicca, anicca, anicca. We are reminded that all things are impermanent, all things are ever-changing. The breath comes in, the breath goes out. We are made up of atoms vibrating, vibrating, vibrating. Nothing is fixed or solid, especially not our bodies. Arising, dissolving, birthing, dying, constantly in motion. Like the peregrine falcon chicks, who were at this very moment growing stronger each day at Norwich Cathedral, shedding their cotton-white down for juvenile streaks, exploring their nests with greater confidence and curiosity, their avian bodies thrusting into future versions of themselves.