Ode to Futility

I find it quite fascinating that in my life I've never spent any appreciable amount of time contemplating the complexity of making a square piece of fabric look GOOD on a ROUND piece of furniture. These are the things that I find myself thinking about while at work, and oddly enough, I actually find it compelling in a way. The simplicity is not unlike a tea ceremony. A flick of the wrist, a slight tensioning of the finger tips, each breath, each unconscious tick, is reflected in how the linen lies. Just as each ripple in the tea pot, each dropped leaf, or drop of spilled tea, whether it be by a pocket of air, or crease, or a folded corner, each imperfection in the fall of the cloth is but a reflection of your inability to control your mind and body. Then there are the few moments where you feel it all come together, you feel at peace, you feel as though you're moving outside of time, you don't need to breathe, you're perfectly relaxed and yet you can feel each thread of each muscle expand and contract as you need them. And everything falls perfectly. Not a crease or fold mar the face of the table. The hang is perfectly balanced on each side. Nothing is lacking, and you can feel the balance extends into yourself.
I have always striven to recognize opportunities in any given activity to improve my understanding of the world around me and my place in it. Even in this so mundane a task, one can find some enlightenment, even if only on a personal level.