I have been spending an awful lot of time studying patterns, lately. The pattern in the blue ceramic tile of the bathroom floor, the Arabic letter patterns on the Afghan rug in the living room, or the way that the light shines through the patterns of the trees peeking through my window; they all have my complete attention. 
All my expectations wash away of the world and the people in it. I no longer am fearful. I am no longer grieving, or thinking of loss. I am no longer aware of all the other stuff; the traumatic stuff. I just pick a spot and stare. Sometimes I count the tiles or try to figure out the pattern and number of stitches. Sometimes I imagine the paisleys in the duvet as protective waters and I swim. I steal away from my body and barely move, but just breathe and count, breathe and swim and breathe...sometimes I even forget to breathe and have to remind myself.
In...out...In...out... In my silence and stillness, I notice the purposeful mistakes in the weaving of the rug, the randomness-yet awareness of the growth of the tree limbs, the thought put into each tiny tile placed in the grout and I know that all of this is temporary and these things will fade into non-existence eventually. I am reminded of the smallness of everything. At that point, nothing else matters.
Breathe in...out...in...out...
It doesn't matter what ills may try to come into our sphere, our sacred space. It isn't ours to keep. It doesn't make us who we are and we observe the right to not absorb it, but allow it to roll off our backs into the protective waters of the paisley.
There is so much trouble in this world right now and so many souls around us hanging in the balance. In our tender place, we have compassion for the those lost souls, who struggle to have the freedom from need, or just be still and want nothing. For what are these things worth? The only thing I know that is real, that is really real is the love I feel. Nothing else matters.
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