You start as a ping in pond. A pebble pulsing out perfect ripple after ripple after diminishing ripple.
Moments later your ripple meets another, and, if you’re lucky, it meets another two or three gliding out in sympathetic pulses to the edge of the unknown world. You dance ringlets around each other for a few years, colliding in tears or laughs, sliding away, colliding again.
Later the pond turns to splash, spit, dive. Showoffs, pushing and shouting. Horseplay and running.
Years pass and the surface is a mess with whitecaps. It’s stormy but you’ve learned to ride it out. Good days and weeks, you tuck yourself under a curl and surf with grace. Even better days you toss with the swells and it doesn’t bother you.
One night you pause, and you see the pattern for what it is: hundreds of wavelets, criss-crossing each other in every direction, inscribing a singular pattern: your life, your family, their lives, the saxophone player’s life, the horse’s life, the bartender’s life. The next minute, the next beat, the next and the next.
And then you all get up to dance.
Grongar 