I have to say that I don’t find patterns to be peaceful. I have been besieged by them all my life. Clear patterns, emerging patterns, unseen patterns. I can’t look at anything or think about anything without assuming that I should be able to read its meaning. I can’t resist the effort to make even a hint of pattern clear.
That said, there is nothing I find more comforting than the concept of random. Grains of rice, fallen leaves and petals, lawn grass, stars in the High Sierra, all random. Not patterned. Better even than a nice minerally Sauvignon Blanc.