At the edge of the valley, there was a place where the grass grew in an unusual pattern.
Nothing grew there that could not be found elsewhere.
The grasses were ordinary.
The stones were ordinary.
The wind was ordinary.
Yet travelers sometimes stopped there without knowing why.
One observer began visiting the place regularly.
The observer carried no measuring instruments.
No map.
No theory.
Only the habit of noticing.
Over many visits, the observer began to suspect that something was changing.
The pattern in the grass seemed to shift.
Sometimes it curved toward the river.
Sometimes toward the forest.
Once, after a storm, it appeared to form a nearly perfect circle.
The observer considered several explanations.
Wind.
Water.
Animals.
Human footsteps.
Some combination of all four.
Then one afternoon, another traveler arrived.
They stood together at the edge of the field.
“What do you think it means?” the traveler asked.
The observer looked at the grass.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why have you kept watching?”
The observer considered the question.
“Because it keeps changing.”
The traveler smiled.
“That seems insufficient.”
“Perhaps.”
A breeze crossed the valley.
The grasses bent.
For several seconds, the pattern became almost invisible.
Then the wind passed.
The pattern returned.
Neither traveler spoke.
Far away, something moved through the forest.
The observer watched the field a little longer.
Then looked toward the forest.
Then toward the river.
There was no indication which direction mattered.
So the observer remained where they were.
Sometimes the most interesting thing about a pattern is not what it explains.
It is what it makes possible to notice.
We Are All Data Inside 
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