What was there once is likely not there next.
To wit: a pickerel frog yesterday, a spectacularly magenta plant today.I had taken the frog for dead because I approached, slipped, stomped, sat, and leaned in. Close. Too close, I thought, for a living amphibian. But the frog never moved, the eye never blinked, no breath escaped. Today, I could find no evidence of frog -- no indentation in the mud or sign of struggle. No fleshy bit left behind after a scavenger's meal.
Today, I took the lake itself for unphotographable -- at least by me. Heavy mist became rain, then shifted into fog. Although I lay on wet grass and sand and aimed at tiny violet flowers sprouting up like a baby's giggles from no known source, I could not focus, or frame, or take a single snap worth saving. So I started back to the car, and that's when I saw the color, so brilliant as to be unbelieved. But magenta it was, and the photo is real.Today, many of my friends and some of my family celebrated Easter, a time of new coming that returns every year, a reminder of the rising of a man into his godhood or of a god out of his manhood and of faith at the end of winter turning into spring.
Every day I walk into a new becoming, a reminder of risings and dyings, always turning from what was into what is, making what is what was in less time than I can type a single letter or think it.
Today, I celebrate the constancy of is.
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