Letting Frogs Pop into Existence

By Blaise Kielar:

Walking the interlaced paths of Duke Gardens, carefully maintaining proper social distance, I catch myself possessive of my airspace, far beyond six feet. In finding my little corner of solitude and quiet, I fear a wind-borne germ as if it tags along with the yellow pollen already raining down from the pines. Like the virus, a pollen grain is invisible, that is, until thousands pool on the ground. My sneeze is doubly unwelcome.

I’m grateful for this urban oasis, started in 1938 by Sarah P. Duke’s daughter as a tribute to her nature-loving mother. The major buildings of Duke University’s West Campus were completed by 1935, planned around Duke Chapel with its 210-foot-tall bell tower, perched on the highest spot of the campus. The garden was an inspired use of a ravine within easy walk of Duke Hospital, the Chapel, the library, and the dorms.

I meander down a gentle slope, calmed by artful groupings of small trees, groundcover and boulders, unperturbed by sporadic beeping of construction equipment nearby. The beeps remind me of how humans alter our environment, and I realize the rocks are of a variety of types with different weathering patterns yet are arranged to appear like natural groupings. The engineers and landscape designers had plenty of budget to lay out this exquisite garden to deliver each visitor a taste of the beauty of Mother Nature, on paved walkways in formal gardens or dirt paths in themed habitats.  

A gray stone beckons me to sit, more appealing than the elegant bench just uphill. I want to spend some time with a Japanese Maple that has caught my eye. I marvel at its gracefully rounded shape, like the top of a well-shorn man’s head. Low to the ground, all its branches are visible - the buds have not yet burst forth into leaves. The thick short trunk is far to the right. Three main branches twist chaotically to underpin the smooth crown. As I admire this dramatic asymmetry, I realize this tree has been trained by generations of gardeners - bonsai on the scale of a small tree. I stand to look for clues. There are few obvious pruning scars. All these gnarled branches crisscrossing each other repeatedly have been coaxed by man, perhaps with string or wire, maybe turnbuckles; a vision taking decades of management to fulfill. My eyes get lost in following just one of the branches – it seems like it touches all the others on its journey from trunk to its delicate buds.

I return to my boulder and admire the whole tree, the urge of nature tempered by the skill of man. Knowing that I am admiring art and science as well as nature does not separate me from its beauty. What wonders arise when I just slow down and truly see! Reminds me of decades ago when I’d take friends into a side lobby of the Morehead Planetarium building at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.  A ring of marble columns encircled a rotunda and set off elegant wood paneling with portraits hung between pairs of columns. Among the stiff portraits hung a genuine Rembrandt. Anybody could wander in, even late at night, and behold that secret!

I stand, expansive at discovering my secret tree, offer thanks to the Japanese Maple, and wander on. Small groups walk together – my shoulders tighten. Should I be mindful of not walking in the wake of their breathing?

“I’m scared.” A small girl, eyes scrunched up to hold back upcoming tears, runs away from her mother. The bee she saw is already gone.

“If you don’t bother him, he won’t bother you,” the mom replies in a soothing tone. The child is unconvinced.

I watch them walk quickly away. A red-lacquered bridge beckons me to cross, its dramatic arch evoking Kyoto. I stop in a part of the garden unknown to me and empty of people. Shoulders loosen. An inscribed pole tells in English and Japanese that this tumbling waterfall garden was dedicated just five years ago. It looks ageless. Water flows from a hidden pump over jumbles of rock in two tumbling streams, uniting in a tiny pond near the footpath. I admire the artful placement of the boulders, the regular horizontals energized by leaning verticals and strong diagonals - a dynamic composition, just like an Old Master landscape. I sit on a stone where it is permitted and notice the split bamboo arches that prevent climbing on the other side of the water.  A Japanese Maple is a central feature, left to its organic shape reaching for the sky. A narrow streamlet leaves the little pond and heads downhill, its gentle burbling washing away my Covid worry.

 Peace returns - until I recall a passage in Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek where she details all the life in a square foot of ground – over a thousand critters including mites, springtails, millipedes, beetles. Was it millions of creatures if you include microbes? The lack of signs of animal life makes my little Eden seem like an outdoor museum behind invisible glass. I long for ant mounds or a bee buzzing, even a mosquito! I focus my intention and let thoughts dissolve. Ten blissful minutes pass. With a sudden pop my eyes resolve a pattern on the ground into a frog! It did not exist two seconds ago. Nothing has moved, other than my brainwaves. The leg and torso blend with the jumble around it. How did I miss its brown skin on the light mulch, after sitting there for half an hour? I stare into its bulging eyes until my concentration fades. Pop – there’s another frog – and a third! One in the cleft of a rock, one among some low scrabbly growth, much better camouflaged. Now clear in my visual field, they are an exciting part of my world. I congratulate myself on my stillness and observation skills. Pop – I see another further downstream, and a minute later, the largest one appears just beyond arm’s reach! How did I not scare him off when I sat down? How did I not see him, big and brown, perched on a slanted light gray rock, just below my eye level? For close to an hour I sat in a faux forest scene, playing the role of a faux human, missing the reality of frogs, so at home in their environment that they could hide in plain sight.

 Me and the big frog maintain eye contact a long time. He is as still as his rock. I get self-conscious every time I shift my arm or tilt my head. I finally notice movement – his throat sac slowly pulses as he breathes. With no ribs or diaphragm, the subtle expansion and contraction of the sac pulls air into his lungs and pushes it back out. Discovering this sign of our equal dependence on air, my connection with him seems stronger. When I break my gaze, I see that one of the other frogs is gone. I scan to check on the other four. While looking right, I hear a plop from the left! Only three remain. I never see movement, only presence or absence. Now you see it, now you don’t. I stare into the large frog’s eyes one last time as if to find the secret of this magic. I resolve to come back soon to revisit his world. My heart warms to discover a safe way to feel connected in this time of social distancing. Alas, Duke closes the Garden the next day over Covid precautions. Now just a feature of my inner landscape, frogs pop into existence only when my worries fade.

***

Known in North Carolina as the leader of the Bulltown Strutters, Durham’s community New Orleans style brass band, violin and clarinet player Blaise Kielar believes that even the most expressive music sometimes cannot say what is lurking to be said. Well-chosen words create a soulful rhythm of their own. He’s been writing poetry and creative non-fiction since 1991.