Drop a boulder in a pond. Splash! Pow! Roar! And the pond shudders. The owl above the pond flys away in fear. The fish swimming for the mosquito floating on top fights a current it cannot conquer. The mosquito on top of the water flys away to lay eggs elsewhere. Grains of sand on the shore push against other grains, building dams – resisting. Leaves that rested on the sand fly away on the evening breezes leaving the toad bare exposed, alone, afraid.
A single drop of rain falls into the pond. Ripples flow in perceived silence. The fish catches the mosquito riding the gentle wave. The sands roll caressing the leaves to shelter the frog laying her eggs on the shore before jumping too high into the owl’s claw.
Stories of the brave battling an unseen enemy; Stories of the frightened – screaming, seeking solace; Stories of death; Stories that make us laugh. The stories around us frighten, beguile, haunt, but we continue. It’s what we do, flowing among the ripples of time
If I must choose between following the boulder cracking open the pond with one giant splat and the single drop of rain nourishing the cycle of life, I will chose the single drop of rain. The more I write about Balder, the more he guides me as he guides the men and women who enter his bar. But perhaps it is writing his words, that I recall how slime oozes from wounds broken by stones. Joy embarks from care.