Frogs in the City

I have a frog yen that hatched in me as a little girl and kicks its legs inside me still. Every spring, when Steven’s creek receded from the winter’s rainy flood, came tiny brown frogs, no bigger than your thumbnail, and millions, (I swear millions!) of tiny black tadpoles. There is nothing to me like that sight. I caught them in cupped hands, put them in a round glass globe of creek water with rocks and seaweed and hung the globe in my mom’s custom macramé in the kitchen so we could watch them up close, growing legs, becoming frogs. Every year the same plot and yet it was always suspenseful.

Nature is the original bestselling mystery writer.

So, today I went down to the banks of Longfellow Creek to get my frog ya-ya’s. I don’t know what I was expecting to find there; I didn’t see any frogs. But the little voice said “Go!” So, I went and dug in the soft creek bank for 20 minutes, rooting out morning glory, the zombie of invasive weeds. It has white skeletal roots and lives by swarming over and sucking the brains out of the plants that outta be there. The ones that help frogs. Then we had a break, then we weeded for another 20 minutes.

Except that actually, it was four hours.

This is why I love frogs, creeks, the undersides of trees. I lose track of time. A very wise friend said to me once that when you are wondering what your “bliss” is, ask yourself: what do I lose track of time, doing? For me, it is way up-close interaction with little plants and bugs. I was like a happy little girl, talking to the black millipedes with their pretty yellow shoes and the caterpillars in their green lounge suits.

I talked to the other volunteers as well. I used the same voice for both. I’m pretty sure they didn’t think I was crazy.

The caterpillars, I mean.

I didn’t see any frogs, but I got filled up with creek time, leaf noises, the smell of soft old logs. I felt really useful and good, taking care of our common land with the other King County Conservation District volunteers: Fred with the gravity-defying moustache, Lisa the pretty mom, Matthew, who had a splendid British accent and his young daughter Diane. Plus friendly leader Adam. I got to know them a little bit, got to know my watershed.

Hello, Longfellow Creek.

I made me want to have what I used to have. Frogs in my own yard, my own garden. Frogs in the city, again. They used to be here. They want to come back. I think it’s possible. I learned some stuff today. I think we can do it. And don’t you feel it? When you remember the house you grew up in, or the cabin by the creek, or that time you camped by the pond and you heard it, the sweet music of frog lust? Don’t you want it? That song, that reminder of wildness and how easy it is to be reborn when spring comes a calling?

It’s nearly summer now, but we still have coldness, rain. It is still a good time to plant seeds. Plus, the solstice is coming up, which is a good time to sing intent. So I will plant this seed, my face close to the earth, my fingernails stuffed with what is good and fertile. And on Monday I will do what I haven’t done in a few years, since mommy busy-ness knocked the ritual out of me. I will celebrate the solstice on the beach. The Fox is old enough to drag a stick in the sand with me, and sing, and draw pictures for the sun to see and bless and bring into bloom.

Frogs in the city. Again.

Thanks to flickr user Damian D for "Pacific Tree Frog", and flickr user Simple Circle Photography for "Pacific Tree Frog hiding on my Rostov sunflower. "