THE THREAD | some notes on puddling
The rainstorm has ended. Just a few clouds remain in the sky. The last of the fallen raindrops slowly slide down roofs, through gutters, and out along the driveways and sidewalks and streets toward the nearest sewer. Some of the raindrops get separated in the rush and left behind. They stay put and form this small miracle you have labeled puddle.
Robins drop down from the treetops, dip their beaks and breasts in the puddles, shake the cool water down their backs, and flick it off their wings. Swallows gather damp twigs and leaves from the edges of the puddles. They fly off to build nests from this miracle you have labeled materials.
There once was a biologist in Pennsylvania. His fieldwork took place among the ruins of the old brick and concrete buildings of his mostly abandoned rust-belt town. He studied moths. During the day, the moths clung to the walls of the ruins. At night they woke and spent hours drinking from the murky puddles among the ruins—pools rich with salts and minerals that crumbled off the brick and concrete. The moth bodies, he learned, act like strainers: slurping up water, retaining the nutrients, discharging the excess water through the back-end of their abdomen, all in one quick motion. He noted that one moth, the Sigmoid Prominent, would build rafts from floating debris and propel itself across the puddle, drinking and discharging along the way, surviving off of this miracle you have labeled ruins.
Every spring, tiger salamanders seek out puddles called vernal pools, a place where they lay their eggs. Because vernal pools are only temporary, the salamanders know there won’t be any risk of fish to eat the eggs. Tiger salamanders have evolved to seek out these puddles so that their offspring can survive, hatching into this small miracle you have labeled ephemeral.
And here you are, watching another small creature that is, for the time being, in your care: this boy, barely three years old. He inches closer to a puddle’s edge and yells, “Jum!” then scoops his left foot into the air, his right foot following close behind. Both feet land at once. A spray of droplets splash upward and dance around his leaping feet. He yells, “Jum! Splash!” Here he is, your own creaturely kind, caught up in this small miracle you have labeled joy.
He leaps again. And again. And again. The sunshine beams down and warms a thought in your mind: Survival always depends on something, every creature given something essential to seek out. Among the things your own species requires for your haphazard survival in this harsh world, look at this necessity: the leaping laughter of joy. This odd thing given, that could have just as easily been something else—it just might be needed, this gift that might not have been, that could have been nothing at all, except for the simple fact that it is. And you, held by this small miracle you have labeled is.
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What I'm reading: Leo Babauta's The Power of Less, not much else
What I'm listening to: Rob Notes' Arc Minutes (thanks to Johnny Reeves for the record!), Making Movies' A la Deriva, a whole bunch of Bob Dylan covers
What's getting me through the winter blues: Water, my Day Light lamp, dried mangoes, sunshine
What I'm rooting for this week: Kansas City sportsball
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Peace and grace,
Andrew
BUSKER JAR: If you want to support my projects this year with a lil' bit of patronage, I'd welcome it. You can use my PayPal (andrewjohnsonkc@gmail.com) or Venmo (@Andrew-Johnson-45954).