Patterns

I see patterns.

I see them in the wicker chair that sits on a sun-dappled porch. I see them in the ripples of a puddle still growing in the rain. I see them in the vines that thread along the chain link fence of my childhood back yard.

I see patterns.

I see them in my friend's decisions; the way they navigate through life. I see them in my child's behavior, and can follow them back to where theirs have sprouted from my own. I see them painted across every story, nestled in every work of art, and woven through every historical event as clearly as I can see the line where the sky meets the ocean.

I draw patterns.

I draw them with the wheels of my car along the roads of the hometown that I know so well. I draw them with my steps as I move around the house to put things back where they belong. Like a spider building a web, day after day, I draw them as routine steals another week from me.

I draw patterns.

Patterns that I've seen before. Patterns that take my by surprise. Patterns that take time to emerge.

Each dot placed is a favorite meal made. Each little squiggle is a game played with my children. Each line defined is another day gone by.

Each cramp in my hand is proof of the effort and care it takes to make something beautiful, and when I step back to take them all in together,

I see what it means to be alive.