The puppy prances in with a tinfoil tray. It holds scraps of last night's lasagne. His prance is the prance of everything and everyone that has ever been young, and pleased with itself. He lifts his paws high, holds his head high, and prances Cross the kitchen floor with the tray in his mouth. His whole being shouts "look how clever I am!"
In this moment, he is every foal running with its herd, every fish swimming upstream for the first time, every bud breaking open, every child taking its first step. Everything that is young and delighted with itself.
We lose that delight. Adults don't prance. We use it as a derogatory term. Yet as I watch the pup with his tin foil treasure, I wish delight in ourselves and a little prancing for us all. Pure delight.