Last night I stood outside while my grandchildren played with the neighbor kids, rode bicycles and scooters, shed jackets in the early evening chill. A timeless ritual they don’t yet know is timeless.

I saw in them my own dear girls, their tangles and pigtails, trikes and tractors. And deeper still, my own young self, playing Red Light, Green Light in the warm Kentucky dusk.

If we’re lucky enough to live a while, we see the patterns and repeats. Timeless activities are blessed by repetition. We find meaning in their concentric circles.