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  • Writer's pictureWILLIAM A SLOAN


She sees patterns, she said. And isn’t that a wonderful thing?

Patterns in color? Patterns in behavior? Patterns in thought? What kind of patterns exactly? Or maybe “exactly” is the perfectly wrong word to use. Maybe it’s more like when? And why? And what happens next?

I see patterns as well, which is why I‘m curious. Is it a mathematical thing? A creative thing? A flashback? A Disney manifestation? Possibly, possibly, possibly and god I hope not. I see patterns when I close my eyes. They’re like the stained glass windows from Sainte-Chapelle. Gorgeous. But in my nocturnal eyes, they move in a weirdly Grace Slick kind of way. Seductive, sensual, light-show-religion on the insides of my eyelids, every night before I drift off. Or wander? Can I get an amen?

Patterns. What do they mean? Literally and otherwise? My mother made quilts which were dependent on patterns - balance, color, tradition, personal touch. Always beautiful. Always comforting. Always rich in so many ways.

I find patterns in the rhythms of the people I know - interactions, social “dancing”, courtship – romantic or otherwise. You can almost hear the music – usually a tango, by the way.

I love patterns. Always have. And when someone you know only lightly says, “I see patterns,” well, it makes you think, “Um, I didn’t see that coming...and this is interesting...and something just happened...and what does it all mean?

I love the idea of being part of a pattern. I love the idea of being part of someone else’s pattern. I love the idea of individual, beautiful pieces combining to create a more beautiful whole.

“I see patterns,” she said.

And the conversation begins...

Every human life had its pattern that had to be worked out slowly to its ultimate conclusion. - Irving Stone

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