I heard a splash. Moving closer, pushing aside the tall autumn grasses, I
quietly watched the pond. There were ripples where something had disturbed the
peaceful, glassy surface but I couldn’t imagine what had made caused them.
And then, there it was. About five inches long, slender and silver, a
fish jumped up, wiggled in the air, and then dropped back out of sight.
I have walked this path countless times. I’d first discovered this small
protected woods when I was still in my twenties. Having moved to a new town
just a few weeks after my first child was born, I was on the look-out for new
places to explore. With my daughter in a snuggly—the front-carrier most popular
at that time—we’d wander the local parks, walk the malls, or trek along the
riverfront. Together we’d take long drives into town or through the corn fields
that bordered our neighborhood. She was born in the spring, so we watched the
corn grow tall together that whole first summer.
It was a warm autumn day when I came across the little woods. I parked my
car and stepped onto the paved path that led around the edge of the trees. Soon
the pond, so full of life, appeared on my right behind the cattails. Unseen
ducks called out nearby. An egret stood on the far edge of the pond, staring
down into the water. I savored the idyllic scene, etching it into memory and
revisiting it over and over, often without ever leaving my house.
All four of my children have come to know this place. They’ve gathered
leaves and twigs, bits of cottonwood and walnut shells and created collages
that hung in the kitchen or were given as gifts to a grandmother or aunt. And
as they grew, our passages through the woods became less frequent and much
quieter. In the last few years, I’ve been coming alone, more often than not.
Then came last year’s drought. Summer began a month ahead of schedule and
lasted longer than ever before. We had less rain than at any other time since
they’ve been keeping track of such things. When the heat finally broke, in mid-October,
the pond was gone. Completely gone. Tall brown grass covered the low area where
the pond should have been. I actually cried. I felt as if a part of me was
gone.
The weather channel proclaimed that it would take ten years of
above-average rain to bring the water tables back to normal. For all I know,
they’re right. Maybe the water is still lower than it was. However, this year,
a cold snowy spring gave way to a cool rainy summer. Despite the weather, I could
have walked in the woods on many occasions, but I avoided it. The image of that
first time—the egret standing at water’s edge—was so much more comforting that
the thought of the barren, dry landscape I’d last seen.
Today, pleasant air was highlighted by sunshine and soft breezes. The only
portent of oncoming winter—the date on the calendar—pushed me past my
avoidance. I just couldn’t go a whole year without seeing the little woods.
As I drove, two images fought for position in my mind—a pond full of life
and a dead, dry divot. I turned onto the narrow road leading into the woods and
parked my car. Birds harmonized with the remaining rustling leaves and the soft
sound of my footsteps on a path strewn with color.
I was watching the ground, avoiding the hard remnants of nutshells cast
aside by squirrels and chipmunks, when I heard the splash. Looking up, I caught
sight of a shiny surface between the tall grasses and cattails and my heart
pounded with expectation. I pushed the grasses aside and gratitude surged
inside me. The pond looked to be as big as ever.
And then, from the ripples, that shiny silver sliver jumped.
How could that be?
How could this place that was dry as death a year ago now be full of life
again?
I sat on a bench and watched through a familiar clearing that had
returned with the rest of the view, and I fell into a daydream as I tried to
imagine how fish had found their way into the new waters. In my fantasy, I
imagined a fish carrying fertile eggs. I saw them growing inside her but just
before she could move the new life from her body, a bird swooped down and
plucked up the fish swallowing her whole. The next day, the bird flew over an
empty, lifeless pond and dropped the eggs—still viable—in with her waste.
A silly fantasy. I shook my head as I rose from the bench and headed into
the shady woods for the rest of my walk. More likely, I told myself, an
underground stream fed the pond and the fish made their way back as the waters
rose. Still, within that fantasy I found a bit of significance.
We are all moving through our lives as if we are in control, and as if
the surprising and sometimes catastrophic things that occur are random,
arbitrary events.
A meal for the bird.
A tragedy for the fish.
New life for the little pond.
Maybe we’re all ripples in a pond. Maybe each one of us and everything we
do is part of an exquisite panorama of life—a picture so enormous and so intricate
we can’t even fathom its existence.
I've been playing with that video software again... this one is inspired by the Conscious Evolution intensive I've been doing for the last four months, and it's a little more creative. I used a combination of drawn images reworked in photoshop and free images (found online,) and added free sound effects (also found online).
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