One of the exercises in the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain is to draw the spaces between objects. It is a qualitative shift in how we see things, and invites us to step away from our well grooved patterns as we sketch. The thinking behind it is that when we observe a clutch of flowers our right brain, which is quite willing and capable of noticing the intricate contours in a daffodil, is easily overpowered by our left brain. That portion of our mental process is inclined to depend on past memory.

"Flowers? I know how to do that. Stop looking and let me take over. Done in a jiffy."

Then our fingers comply to sketching the kind of petals that are best left to cheap greeting cards. Which means we miss the chance to take in the actual beauty in front of us. 

If we instead task ourselves with recording the spaces between the flowers, our left brain has no history to pull from, and shuts up. Drawing from the right brain is a quiet process, one less muddled by words. It is patient and unattached to time. 

Recently I elected to start keeping track of when Benjamin is calm. The spaces between the tumult. While it is in some ways easier to notice the flare ups, mark their intensity and frequency, it keeps my eyes on the pain. By choosing to take notice of the peaceful interludes, like yesterday when he broke into singing in the kitchen, those moments become valued. Observed. Held.

Being cognizant of the parts of our body that are not aching, does not always happen. Being mindful of the calm spaces in a relationship pocked with conflict takes effort.  

But it is there for the taking, right before our eyes.