Confession

You asked “Where to from here?” And I did not have an answer.

There are always reasons. Excuses. For me, this one is I don’t want to jinx it. I am still trying to limit expectation. Still trying to keep this real, keep it slow… as to not miss the journey.

When I was a young child my father would take me to listen to the frogs sing. After dark on a mild spring night, he would walk me down the road (getting our “night eyes”) talking to me about bats and owls, night predators and how their eyes worked. I faked being brave. We had to cut down off the main road, following an old rutted road through some thin pines to the small pond. The frogs in their spring love in would still and quiet as we approached. Like a lover avoiding one’s touch, the ripple extending out as we moved closer. I was told to stand still, although the water was dark and a scary with only the stars reflected in it… my boots almost to filling with the cold water. I could hear my heart. My father’s breathing. Then slowly.

One.

Far off at first. One frog. A tentative song. Silence. Then again.

Joined by another.

Then two more… then closer... more… closer still….

Until there would only be the music of the night. All around me. Magic. The frogs singing their amphibian hearts out and me still as stars, listening.

But. If I would shift or fidget, the frogs would stop singing. Or, if before they came close I would try and ask my father a question, they would feel us in the ground and we would have to begin again. For a child, this was a hard task. As an adult, it seems harder. There is so much to say, so much action in muscle.

Love is like those nights. The long dark walk to the pond, that I know is there… but can’t quite see. Standing still, keeping mute when required to be quiet. Hard things to do. But oh, what a sweet wonder it is when you are standing amongst a thousand small voices of love.

My heart is like that. Love starting far off, slowly. One small voice then another. Until I can no longer be still or quiet. Until I am so filled with that music that no matter how far I move from the pond, I hear it still.

Can you wait? Be still enough for me to show you how the night is something new, how even the simple frog sounds beautiful if earned by patience?

It won’t be long, love. Sometimes "where" is nowhere but "here". If you listen, you can hear them singing on the edges of the night.


G.