"We come to give thanks: for earth and sea and sky in harmony of color, the air of the eternal seeping through the physical, the everlasting glory dipping into time, we praise Thee." George F. MacLeod
I didn't think to ask for woodcocks nor the fox nor the merlin in the front yard nor the fox sparrows in the back, nor the tundra swans nor the bald eagle who sailed through the yard with some unfortunate prey clasped in its talons. I didn't think to ask for for the toads and tadpoles and spotted salamander eggs in the derelict backyard pond we inherited, nor the robins who prefer its wildness to a domesticated bird bath. I didn't think to ask for the two solitary columbines nor the ancient clump of peonies that somehow survived the carnage of the previous owners, nor for the softest soil I have ever worked. Or that my vocation as gardener would bring redemption to this bit of land and blessing to those who loved it before me. In this frightening, new, collective social isolation, and while missing those I love, I didn't think to ask for the myriad young trees and shrubs that will soon surround us and are fast becoming friends. For all I didn't think to ask... Thank You.
Up early, I headed for a handful of hidden ponds, hoping for wood frogs. Like the monochrome of a pencil sketch, or the patina of ancient pewter, grey clouds and tree trunks, bare branches, rocks and dried leaves, stretched in all directions. The ponds were quiet with no wood frogs clacking, no frenzied mating energy expended. But, upon closer inspection, there were eggs, thousands of them, or maybe millions, laid on submerged twigs and leaves in the nights before. Captivated, I turned my attention to what was there... leaves visible on the pond bottom, tall trees reflected in still water, a teasing bubble as something swam to the surface... something long and sleek, something black with yellow spots, something gracefully twisting and turning as it descended, head down, back into the depths. Through binoculars and taking a closer look beneath the water, what had looked like nothing much became alive with the slow-motion movement of spotted salamanders, creeping, gliding, crawling over and under decaying debris, going about their mating-season, daytime rest. Grateful wonder. Enfolding stillness. Unfolding contentment, Contemplation of what is rather than disappointment with what isn't. Truly, is this not what I had really come seeking?
