And then — smooth again

A quiet story about walking through what scares us

I wrote this piece as part of my morning mindful habit of writing one of my stories, every day. If you’re feeling spontaneously called, join us TODAY at 1 pm, Pacific/ 4 PM, Eastern, for a 90-minute writing workshop. We’re writing about our mindful moments of joy. It’s necessary right now — feed your joy.

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My feet stopped moving on the mud-covered plank of wood. The sound of my child's voice stopped me.

"Oh wow! That thing is huge!"

I looked down at the murky water on the path, still lingering in July, and saw 2 eyes like black beads looking up at me. Bending at the waist, I loomed closer to its green face. Its long legs bent at the joints stayed still.

Was it afraid of me? Or was it fascinated?

My child crept closer, their pristine white tennis shoes now splotched with mud. The sight of this little being obliterated the fear of getting their shoes dirty. They bent down at the waist too.

The sound of the second set of footsteps? That was enough. The creature leapt off, its legs extending as it kicked to gain momentum. Splash splash splash.Rings of ripples grew wider and the surface of the water remained ruffled for a moment.

And then — smooth again.

"WHOA" they yelled. "That was the biggest frog I have ever seen in my life!"

We moved forward, out of the muddy waters and toward the beach. They talked about the size of the frog — definitely bigger than my fist; as big as my shoe? not quite — and the mottled light green splotches on its skin, contrasting with the dark green on its limbs. We talked frog.

A few moments later, as we made our way over moss-covered rocks and tree roots made grey by the dirt, my child stopped, abruptly. They pointed.

"It's a dead rat, Mom. I don't want to keep walking this way."

I looked over their shoulder and saw the crumpled little body, curled into itself. Something got it. But there was no blood, no mangles, no flies. It looked peaceful. Part of the forest.

I put my hands on the shoulders of my youngest. They quaked beneath my fingers. This child is the most sensitive being I have ever met. They feel everything, deeply.

Slowly, I began rubbing my right thumb, back and forth, on their shoulder. When they feel stress, I go quiet. I hold them. I rub their back. I do what I can to make them feel safe and activate their vagus nerve.

After a moment or two, I said: "Do you feel like you can move forward now?"

They looked at the rat body, then looked at me, and said, "I think if I sprint, I can do it."

And they did.

We walked forward far enough to come out onto the beach, waiting for us at the end of the forest. An empty wooden bench waited for us. We both sat down.

"Whoa!" I said, right from my chest. "Look at the size of that bald eagle."

An enormous bird sat in the stream trickling into the blue waters of Puget Sound. Wild geese idled in the waters nearby, along with flitting kildeer and a flock of crows.

"Let's see how far we can walk before it moves away."

So we walked, in hushed meditation, closer and closer, until the eagle sprang from the creek and spread its wings.

This movement caused a flurry of fluttering wings — the crows; the killdeer; the geese sheltering their babies. As the eagle flew higher, my child pointed out the blue heron flapping and starting to fly. It gave out a rapid, frantic squawking roh-roh-roh, roh-roh-roh.

My child loved this mess of a noise, the flapping, the harsh cries, the sleek black crows flying over our heads. They jumped, delighted, in the creek, with the thick green seaweed and little pebbles.

Time to head home.

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This kid of ours had a rough, aching time for the 15 months we lived in Seattle. That meant we did too. As they said the other day, when I remarked on the fact they are eating far more food in our new home on Vashon than they did the last year, they said, "Yeah, well the city was scary."

This was the first walk in nature they had taken with me since February of 2024.

And we are home.

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