Today's journal entry, dear readers, has not a thing to do with your careers. I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless.
Last year, my husband and I stumbled upon an event that we were completely oblivious to, even though it has been taking place, with complete certainty, for thousands of years. And this year, determined not to miss its unscheduled performance, we came upon it again.
There is a marshy area a country block from our home, where cattails grow and the calls of the red-winged black birds can be heard from mid-March to September. It is also home to one goose nesting, fish that periodically perform a back-flip, a beaver or otter whose shiny coat shimmers when it breaks the water's surface, and to many frogs. And it is the frogs who drew us to the marsh this evening.
As we approached our ears perked up. From quite a distance, the frogs' song rose above the sounds of a baseball game and the ever-present traffic noise. With each step the urgency of the frogs' mating calls lengthened our strides. Their staccato singing, undulating in volume and pitch to the wand of an unseen conductor, is hauntingly ancient. It is both earthy and other-worldly, mesmerizing, hypnotic, compelling. Standing at the marsh's edge we listened with reverence and awe. Life's rhythm in song.
Would that I could fall asleep to its lullaby.