Read Jim’s version of Walden in his meditation on the hidden Oxbow pond.
You know the fable and so do I. The homely frog prince-in-waiting, pining away on his lily pad being ignored by all the beautiful princesses, until that fateful day. The moral? Maintain hope, your day will come. Wait for a princess who is fearless of amphibian zoonoses transmitted through a kiss. Or one with a deep, abiding guilt regarding her species’ ravaging of the natural environment. An entrepreneurial queen-in-waiting hoping to find untold riches in your swamp. Or a hegemon, laying claim to another piece of previously unconquered territory?
Piffle on all theory, I say, for I know.
What kind of an Ironist are You?
I have been like that homely frog for over seventy years. I have waited patiently for that magical kiss, and have indeed, been blessed by the kiss of many a comely maiden. But I remained, a somewhat slimy amphibian despite all that heavenly osculation. And the days are moving at a frightening pace. I don’t know how many more I have – my aging telomeres must be getting shorter by the year.
Yesterday during a hot, late June afternoon, I visited the East Don Oxbow Lake. The lake was formed when Toronto engineers straightened the East Don River, following the catastrophic flooding during Hurricane Hazel (October 15, 1954). A previous meander in the stream was isolated in the process and became the Oxbow Lake.
We raised our family on the headlands above the valley, which became the playground for our boys. Nary a summer day went by when they weren’t riding their bicycles in the valley. Even after Sharmani’s body was found in a shallow grave by the river, near one of their favourite hangouts, we did not forbid them their freedom. We trusted them.
The boys were still very young when we discovered the Oxbow. It was an immediately entrancing place. Great blue herons fished in the shallows, and during the summers we could watch minnows and sunfish grazing in its clear waters. In a sense, the Oxbow was saved by its isolation, being cut off from the agro-industrial pollution of the Don. It was fed by run-off down the sides of the valley, with no storm sewer influx, and its robust aquatic flora purified the waters.
Then, perhaps thirty years ago, I was running past the pond and noted the construction of a stick dam at one of its minor effluents. Stopping to inspect, I concluded that only one species could build such an exquisite barrier: the beaver! While digesting this thought, I heard a splash, and saw a large, female beaver swimming with an aspen branch in her mouth, en route to an impressive lodge built against the eastern bank.
The pond was a jewel and a salvation.
We passed through influenza pandemics, global financial meltdowns, 9/11, endless war, SARS and yet standing by its shores, there was unequivocal peace, for a moment. We carried that peace with us as we moved forward into a world of increasing uncertainty.
Twenty years since my last visit, I stood by a pond barely recognizable to me. The trees had grown, sheltering most of it from view. I walked by our previous, favourite vantage point, which was unrecognizable. The pond had shrunk, due to the slow, natural encroachment of riparian flora, and inexorable eutrophication.
I found a dirt path that was familiar, leading to what I remembered was the south shore. It was 35 degrees, and very still. The path led truly to the pond’s edge. As I stood next to the waters, calm, clear, partially covered in pondweed, a muskrat emerged from the cattails, trailing a long leaf. Blue darners and white wings hovered above the early, tiny flowers of Lemna. Painted turtles sunned themselves on the partially submerged cedar stumps. Other than the hum of distant traffic, the pond was silent. Then I called the frogs.
Within one call, I heard return calls from the four corners of the pond. As I continued to call, the chorus became louder, and I noticed quiet trails of swimming frogs, their protuberant eyes riveted on me. Before long, I was calling to an entourage arrayed 180 degrees around where I stood. Magic.
But then, an epiphany.
I am that frog! I may appear human, but to at least fifty percent of the world, I am less . Oh yes, I have been accepted in some circles, perhaps, I have done some good deeds along the way – captured some flies, been forage to predators, submitted to being kept in children’s terrariums – enough to stay in the reasonable good graces of the powerful.
I have raged against my marginalization, raged at the people whom I have allowed to define my life. Yes, I have had the privilege of the maiden’s kiss but remain an amphibian.
What to do about it?
Embrace it.
