Floors are expressive of the feet that have walked on them (this, as I remember, first by medieval pilgrims); tiles, of the hands that made or painted them. Stories are in their earthy fabric.
I have considered shrines, spaces where objects sacred to one's being are gathered. One such I've written down includes terracotta tile, like these; a copper bowl, in which could be laid spices (saffron, indigo, turmeric, sage) or sensha teas; an antique Persian rug in the colors of dusty jewels; sheep bells; and a Pippi Longstocking chest, into which can go little rolls of poetry in several languages, buttons, shells, glass marbles, Portuguese stamps, and pressed flowers.
My Christmas Eve shrine, my writer's space today, would be both that and this that follows, wordless and bright.
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