The Frog in the Pond Revisited
Two years ago Kit and I began a new chapter in life in the Sierra Foothills of northern California. This morning, I find myself revisiting a blog written soon after our arrival that captures that uncertain moment in time when we took a leap of faith and headed west.
April 2021. What a complex and demanding world we live in. Our local newspaper, The Union, is tossed at the foot of our driveway around 5:30 a.m. five days a week by a young driver in a light blue Prius, introducing us to local news, views of its columnists and cultural events in and around historic Nevada City (pop. 3,150) and the larger town of Grass Valley (pop. 12,820) just 4 miles to the west. Beyond that, I can hardly take in national political news and the latest global conflict. At least not until boxes that still await unpacking have been opened. Instead, I focus on keeping my balance as I navigate unfamiliar territory and establish new routines.
These days, I breathe in and breathe out. This is what I did when I began swimming three days a week, back and forth following the results of the 2016 presidential election. Not allowing the weight of the political and racial chasm that characterized that administration to sink my spirit.
Thinking back on those dark times, I recall two magical encounters with nature that buoyed my spirits and helped restore my sense of balance. As I walked across the glade at Boomerang Creek, our former home in Missouri, a box turtle walked in front of me. It instinctively pulled its head in and remained perfectly still. Instead of being disturbed by the towering figure that threw a dark shadow over its path, it encountered ten toes painted a lovely shade of plum when it finally stuck its head out for a peek. Soon its head and feet reemerged, and onward it went unharmed.
On another occasion at the entrance to Kit’s writing studio, I discovered a gorgeous, yellow Imperial moth (Insecta: Lepidoptera: Saturnidae) with a 6-inch wingspan. I named her Yolanda. She remained all day, finally dropping to the deck. Thinking she was dying, I carried her to our screened porch. That evening, when it was dark again, she took flight, landed on my hand, walked up one arm and down the other, and softly asked to be set free.
The morning before the great American solar eclipse in the summer of 2017, a fox emerged and trotted by with its bushy tail extended behind it. Our neighbors’ chickens were still roosting. Rain was about to fall. Not a squirrel stirred. Not a bird chirped. Breathe in, breathe out, and be careful, the universe seemed to caution. The light will return, even after the darkest times.
As we were preparing to drive away from Boomerang Creek for the last time, a tree frog hopped on my sock as I walked through our emerging shade garden. Take me with you, he seemed to be saying. But this was a journey Kit and I needed to make alone.
I am not writing of dark political times, but rather of feelings one has when experiencing a seismic disruption to what was our normal for so long. When Kit and I made this commitment to move in October 2020, we had yet to experience the physical and emotional toll that such a move entails.
Kit talks about feeling off balance. Organizing and carrying out our move from Missouri to California was the reality every day, every week, every month from October until our departure the following April. It was the moment we lived in and dealt with as the rest of the world kept spinning on each day without us carrying the banners as we’ve so often done in the past.
April 2023. Since Kit’s fall a year ago, a new journey through unfamiliar territory is underway.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Light will return, even in the darkest times.
A Haiku written by Matsuo Basho in 1686 entitled “The Frog and old Pond” surfaces in my mind.
The old pond
A frog leaps in
Plop!
As I arrive the Golden Empire Nursing and Rehabilitation “lodge” where Kit is now a resident I recall the frog that clung to my sock as I was leaving Boomerang Creek for the last time.
Keep swimming, I tell my spirit. Keep swimming.
And when your arms get tired, swim with your heart.
