I practiced mindfulness once before. In a group of five, we raised individual wrinkled raisins from table to tongues. Rotating the tiny mass about my mouth, my mind wandered between the dehydrated folds. A seeming heedless mess of raised twists and turns covered the raisin’s rough exterior. Biting down, the small yet complex raisin caught between my molars, a sweet juice poured out and over my waiting taste buds.