At dusk, our neighbors take their dogs out for the last time, then scanning their yard, step in to draw their curtains closed for the night.
Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky, all is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
Over by our pond, the sound of a bellowing frog replaces the hustle of day, filling in the deepening dark spaces that will soon be unconditional twilight. For many years we thought those sounds were made by bullfrogs announcing they were single, until we found one floating belly up and got a good look at it. It was not a bullfrog at all, but a tiger frog with vividly striped legs strong enough to propel them like a cannon. If we are stealthy, we can catch them lined up on the rocks warming themselves against the cooler air, transferring the last of the sun’s heat through their exotic looking skin. One step too close or too fast and BA-LOOOP! – they are airborne with a loud chirp, as if they were a spring-loaded toy, jumping into the safe cover of lily pads.
That day I had captured a baby frog while trimming some nearby bushes and set it up for safe keeping until my grandson could come over and see it for himself. The container condo I put together for the frog wasn’t too extravagant. He had no cable or sectional seating, just a few rocks and a small jacuzzi of pond water, but he seemed well enough for a short stay. When Cash arrived, he had no fear of cradling the tiger frog, but wanted to keep it as a pet as kids are want to do with animals they find outside. We knew the end of that charming story and told him he had to let it go – back to its pond home where it would be most content.
Watching Cash let it go reminded me that we really don’t own anything for very long, especially those gifts we are given from nature. Certainly, it was a lesson for Cash that holding onto a frog too tightly would be selfish, and that Mother Nature, the parent in charge, would be a more secure place for his baby frog even if the future of the murky pond was uncertain.
Recently, we took a similar spontaneous leap into a hometown icon, a small and somewhat rundown mid-century burger joint called Zesto. Many people might characterize this combo grill and ice cream parlor by saying it is not in the best part of town, meaning that it might be unsafe or perhaps at times unhinged. Houses in the surrounding area are a bit ramshackle, and many of the windows are boarded up with sheets of graffiti-painted plywood.
With the world leaving all of us looking warily over our shoulders, I eyed the parking lot with some trepidation when we stopped by for a vanilla cone. I was underestimating how good that ice cream was going to taste, a social concept scientists call “forecasting errors.” Two wobbly picnic tables looked like they’d gone through many coats of bright blue paint, and inside, ingredients were stacked in piles up against the windows, but we were soon awash in conversation with folks who were hospitable, welcoming and real.
One such couple, clad in motorcycle jackets and sporting head to toe tattoos, passed by our table on their way out. Like us, they were trying to keep up with their melting cones. Ice cream, as it turns out, is a lot like nature. You pretty much have to slurp it up while you are in the moment. It lasts, yes, but it is always in a state of shifting fluidity and flux. I caught the biker’s eye as he walked by and feeling kind of like the frog I had captured earlier, risked jumping into his biker world.
“How’s your day going?” I asked.
“Not bad,” the giant in leather answered back, “How ‘bout y’all?”
“Good,” I answered nervously, but inside I was wondering if he might hold me upside down by my ankles and shake out all my loose change. As my wife slipped under the table, I continued.
“What is favorite go-to dish here, what do you like? Do you go for the grease or the cones, or breakfast or…?”
“Everything’s good, I love it all,” he interrupted, but his gal was quick to pipe in.
“We don’t need any of it. Look at us!” she added, and leaning back, made that that circular, weight gain gesture around her beltline.
And there we were, rather suddenly, the four us around a picnic table, talking like old friends, immersed in subjects like our health, our families, and yes, even our dreams. We were looking at our world in the Zesto place, where ice cream and burgers became our leveling field that might piece together our problems. My idea of what safety meant was beginning to relax and I began to let go of some false security, the part of myself that would wither and die if I held onto it too tightly.
As we talked, I had a flashback to a book I had read called The Nature Fix, by Florence Williams where she explained how our brains let go of our novelties after a while, like ice cream, and turn to something deeper, “flying on pure intuition.” That place is life-affirming and sustaining, but actually going there requires taking a risk. It asks us to venture into an unknown wilderness, a place like Zesto. Williams ascertains that we sometimes need to go into those woods to get ourselves out of the woods.
I spoke again first.
“I know I don’t know you guys very well, but in your quietest moments, what do you worry about the most?” I was looking from the bottom up now, and not as nervous.
“For me,” the biker started, “I worry about the whole…” and he waved his arms out, as if he was trying to wrap them around our planet. His face looked out to the sky as he spoke and his eyes were becoming watery. For a moment I thought I might have to drive him home, but then I remembered…I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.
That is when his girlfriend came to the rescue.
“For me,” she said, then paused. “It’s mental health, yea, there’s some problems there.”
We all stopped for a second with a quiet nod. We knew it was the same anywhere you go. All of us hurt somewhere, and we all worry about the future of the world. Inside us are hearts hoping for some kind of healing, and for a safe place to land when we have to jump back into the pond.
I offered to pray for them, and as I did, I couldn’t quite bring myself to reach out and grab their hands. I couldn’t take them home with me. They weren’t mine to keep and neither were their problems, but there was still a song to be sung at twilight. The day was done, gone the sun. Zesto was left in a puff of their motorcycle smoke.
All was well, safely rest, God is nigh.