Frog in the B(l)og
It has been a little difficult to motivate lately now that the summer heat has arrived. The blank page can either be solace or, as in my case, an expanse too vast to contemplate.
The Natalie Goldberg part of myself says: You have to show up even when you don't want to, it is a practice, after all; the Julia Cameron part of myself says, you gotta do the morning pages to clear the slate, and clean out the rafters of your mind.
You get the drift: No excuses.
My inner voices would summon me to the chair. No ifs, ands, or buts, except the one that is supposed to be on the chair. And in the past, this would have worked.
But not lately.
The one thing I have mustered, though, has been a visit to the bog on the Trail. Years ago, I started taking portraits of the frogs and noticed they have different personalities. Some leap into the water the second I get close, and others sit still at my feet for twenty minutes while I snap away. Some even seem to be posing.
Something about the frogs helps me to ground. After all, that's as grounded as you can get. Nestled in the mud awaiting a dragonfly to come hither.
Even with the best of intentions though, sometimes the frogs fail. One frog kept throwing himself at the blue-winged butterfly only three inches away, and it was of no use. The butterfly was always a flutter ahead, the frog too urgent and grasping.
All of nature is a teacher.
Claim your branch. Take your place in the sun. Dodge the snakes. Sometimes you'll catch a wing. Not always. But it’s worth trying. Even so.