A wave of a hand - Anat Schreiber

When I was nine years old, during the languid days of summer vacation, my mother enrolled me in a painting workshop just a short walk from our house. Each morning, as the sun crept higher in the sky, I would set off alone to his house and approach the rusted iron gate that marked the entrance to the art Instructor's world. There, he awaited me, his figure bent ever so slightly as if the very gesture of greeting might usher me into a new realm of possibilities.

He silently greeted me, his slight stoop guiding me forward as I followed him along a crooked stone path crossing the yard. The courtyard was scattered with the detritus of nature—a litter of yellowed fir thorns that seemed to bear witness to seasons long past. The air in those early hours had already shed the oppressive weight of summer heat, and the teacher, who was always shirtless, moved as though the heat had seeped into his very bones. His paint-stained pants clung to his legs, the smudges of color running up to his knees like abstract stories etched in time. Without a word, he led me into the cool, shadowed space of his studio.

In that vast, sun-dappled room, the walls of which were lined with easels draped in dried remnants of paint, a peculiar stillness hovered. Cans of brushes, neglected and worn, sat like abandoned relics, their bristles tangled in webs that swung gently in the draft. Each brush, with its dried remnants of paint, seemed to carry its tale—its own end. I marveled at them, for I understood, even as a child, that I was not merely painting. I was breathing life back into them with the subtle movement of my hand, with the fleeting breath of my mouth, extending the brush’s existence just a little longer.

And then, there were moments when the teacher would freeze. He would pause mid-motion, and the world would seem to hold its breath with him. The other children, who by then had gathered, would instantly lower their brushes as though respecting a silence that demanded no explanation. I recall one instance, vivid in my memory, when he halted beside me, his brush suspended in the air, hovering like a question that had yet to be answered. His bare chest, glowing pale in the light that streamed from the high windows, seemed to radiate stillness. In that suspended moment, everything froze—the wooden beams overhead stretched high, like an altar to the passage of time, and the dust in the air hung motionless, illuminated by the beams of light. My heartbeat quickened, its rhythm pounding like a distant drum. The brush in my hand remained poised in the air, and I, too, was caught in the web of that infinite pause.

Then, as if the world had not stopped spinning at all, the teacher resumed his movement, his brush once again sweeping over the canvas. The moment, though brief, had left its mark upon me—an imprint in time, an understanding of stillness and movement, of time suspended and time resumed. The light, soft as a whisper, fell gently on my paper, and with its touch, I returned to my task—mark after mark, stroke after stroke, tracing the rhythm of life that had not stopped, but only paused for a brief, infinite second.

I kept this experience to myself, not even sharing it with my parents.

Yet, in the quiet corners of my mind, I began to understand something deeper about being a witness. I became attuned to the way moments unfold, to the way the smallest actions—the quietest pauses—can shape us. That summer, I learned the freedom of choosing whether to embrace fear or surrender to the mysteries of existence.

The teacher’s presence, his breath, his body, his stillness—it all became part of me, etched into my being, a memory woven from the fibers of my body and mind. These moments, seemingly small, transcended time, offering me an experience of existence that was without measure, beyond the grasp of ordinary understanding.

Years later, as a physical therapist, I came to realize that the teacher likely had Parkinson’s disease. Parkinson’s, I now understand, is more than a simple cessation of dopamine in the brain; it is the stoppage of energy, the flow of life itself interrupted. What happens when movement ceases? How does one rekindle the flow? What is the source of change, and when does it arrive?

How curious is the universe's way, that I now treat those with Parkinson’s, seeking to restore the flow of energy that once stopped, just as I once felt the subtle, unspoken pause of my teacher. His silence, his strange movements, left an indelible mark on me, and though I was young, I felt the weight of his existential solitude. A quiet, underground river of sadness stirred in him, and, in a way, it stirred in me too—unseen but deeply felt.

Anat Shrieber

anatqigong@gmail.com