It's the patterns in
the air.
The jugglers at the
Boulder juggling club are world-class, better than I can ever hope to be, but
playfully focused and welcoming. Every Sunday night our family goes to juggle.
Then I catch myself at some point, standing with my back to the mirror,
entranced by the activity in the room.
Patterns of balls arc up into the air and float down, caught in a
waterfall. Rings buoy up and hang
just at the top, bubbles caught up in a foam. Clubs twirl and sparkle in the
midst of a circle of friends.
Last week, a friend, my
husband and I kept eleven clubs in the air for brief bits of time. I reveled in the euphoria of success,
the clam of deep focus and a sense of wonder. The beautiful pattern
appears in the air between our hands.
White clubs, wrapped in glittering gilt, twirl and spin in a smooth
dance of arcs in the space that separates us. The
pattern pops into existence for a few moments, then falls apart, like everything that
ever was alive.
