No mystical phrase to murmur mindlessly until it becomes a series of meaningless sounds. No beads to occupy the fingers with the counting out of repetitions until a mystical number is reached, with nothing to show for it all but the passage of time.
A ball of yarn in a bowl, blue mist through clear glass. The fingers move, the thread flows from the bowl, winds snakelike through the hand, is caught up in the needles’ dance, and something useful takes shape.
In the mind’s still pond,
the silver thoughts swim slowly.
The heron chooses.