I’ve been thinking of compassion as a blanket that we wrap around those we care for. A blanket that is strong enough to hold them in safety, soft enough to bring comfort, thick enough to warm cold bones.

It is woven with wefts of love and warps of shared experience. Richly textured, opulent patterns, thickly woven. Yet in amongst the beauty, there are hidden knots of duty, of obligation, of expectation, even resentment, although we tuck these into the corners in fear they will be noticed.

How we tend this cloth of compassion over the years, smoothing the wrinkles, teasing out the knots where we can. But with time, the cloth wears thin in places, as everything does.
Exhaustion, frustration, differences in life patterns, the balance of self and other – all these create holes, tears, tattered edges.

Love darns these areas, with bright wool, criss crossing the worn patches, making whole again. Some take time to mend, the rents caused by fierce arguments need the edges unpicking before the repairs can be made. Patches are needed, increasingly often as dependency on our care increases. Other smaller holes are mended simply and easily by a smile, a gratitude, or the touch of a hand.

After years of care, this blanket has lost its original perfection. The patterns of the weave are hidden between layers of darning, between unmatched patches, it is slightly stretched, misshapen, a bit saggy at the edges. And yet it has its own beauty, it’s own identity. It shows the path we took, the times of ease, the times of struggle. It is real, it is honest, it is human.