A few months ago I considered the different circumstances of my pregnant yoga teacher in Boston and the pregnant woman who lives at the bottom of the hill from Be Like Brit in Grand Goave, Haiti. I am happy to report that both of them delivered healthy offspring.

Isamu, which means brave in Japanese, is a flawless one month old. His dad paces the studio and cradles him while his mother, Tomo, teaches my usual Monday morning class, while the baby nurses quietly in the massage room when his dad teaches on Sunday morning. During Brad’s ninety minute dialogue he always tosses in some quip about his son and fatherhood, Brad’s lack of sleep, Isamu’s abundance of gas.  After class Tomo brings Isamu out for everyone to ogle and some of the women take turns holding him.  I have a trio of nephews with Isamu’s same Japanese-German-Irish ancestry.  They are remarkably varied in their looks; one is blond and blue eyed, another has distinctly almond features while the third is a burly boy who looks Hispanic more than anything.  It is too soon to tell exactly what Isamu will look like.  His skin color is the perfect amalgam of his parents.  He is a bit Asian, a bit Caucasian, an ambiguous ethnicity that is characteristically American.  As he moves placidly from arm to arm after class, it is easy to envision him at home most anyplace the world.

Back in Haiti a pitch black bundle sits in the alley where her mother used to moan.  Since delivery the mother is more social; other women share her breeze.  I am happy that what seemed a very difficult pregnancy is past; I am gratified to witness the child’s tender calm.  Neighborhood children peak into her blankets and tickle the newborn as children are prone to do the world over.  The little girl, incongruously named Sandy, has found a welcome home, firmly routed to this particular patch of dirt and shelter.