There is a Shallow Pond

There is a shallow pond. It's surrounded by grasses, and so inevitably, by dandelions. Sometimes, when their sunny faces grow tired and the wind carries their remains into the sky, I think of myself.

A tuft of dandelion, able to float above the world, able to be a thoughtful bystander, only to watch as life rolls along below it. This privilege doubles as a curse, as many do, as to be able to fly so high, it must be small and light. Weak and insignificant. In exchange for the ability to see the world, it has to relinquish all control to the wind. Maybe it will land in the grass and grow. But more than likely, it will land on the sidewalk, or maybeon the asphalt. In all reality, it could land in the grass and still not grow, fated to a life of insignificance. There is a shallow pond. Stones and pebbles lining its bottom. Curiously, they say none of the rocks originated in the pond. Each of them found their way from the land by itself. Each rock had its opportunity to affect the pond as it entered. The smaller ones fell in quietly, barely a splash and sometimes a ring or two of motion. The bigger rocks made great splashes, rolling ripples across the pond in its entirety and sending the stones at the bottom tumbling. This tumbling eroded away at the pebbles below, sometimes polishing the stones, and sometimes breaking them apart. Being polished was preferred, naturally, but truthfully, each chip in a rock was simply a mark of individuality, a way of identification.

It may be assumed then, that the bigger the rock, the more impact it will have on this shallow pond. Assumptions are bad conclusions. During storms, winds pick up the tiniest of rocks and violently drop them into the pond, rippling like no other. The boulders are too big to be picked up and instead are rolled smoothly into the pond.

When in times of content,I want to be the biggest of rocks, disregarding that things are already okay and making my impact anyway. During storms, times of trouble, I want to be the pebble that rises to the occasion, when the usually great borders cannot. The life of a dandelion tuft just isn't for me...