There’s an empty room, somewhere distant, that I visit on occasion, when the time is right, when the need arises. Its walls are light, its floor peace, and its ceiling infinite. In this room, childhood tensions unravel into coherence and understanding much needed. Emotions unfold into their parts from tight bundles compressing my chest into the knowledge of their origin. It’s a room of release and patience where the air moves to the rhythm of my breath, where time becomes its essence and returns to the folds of my mind. Its light sometimes fills my veins and returns me to times when most of what I am was not, and when I was more truly myself, unburdened of experiences unprocessed. In this room I sit or walk but never run; it is not made for brusque movements, only relaxed and applied motions springing from the center. This room is a window where I stand naked, bathed in light, surrounded by the clothes draped over me by life. A window through which I can see the threads gone awry, the holes unpatched, the sleeves or legs too short or too long, and the seams that do not fit. In this room, I am a great tailor doing the long work, patiently unraveling and re-seaming, laboring to understand and even more so to accept. I sit there in silence, thoughts unattached gliding around me observed but not followed, until a trembling of the air slightly tenses my nerves and I know that soon I will leave. I try to hang on. I do not want to go. If only I could stay, if only for a few more seconds. But that act of volition is the chime that precipitates my departure. I open my eyes then, a faint feeling of peace in my chest quickly dissipating. And my eyes opened I am somehow less me than I was moments before.