The warm afternoon sun casts a golden glow over our quiet half-acre pond, its surface shimmering gently with ripples that appear to dance in the light breeze. The air is filled with the soft chorus of birds, humming of cicadas, and croaking of frogs. Sunbeams softly illuminate the water, mirroring the expansive blue sky and fluffy white clouds above. The air is fragrant with the crisp scent of freshly mown grass and wildflowers. Around the pond, nature seems to pause, inviting a deep sense of relaxation and contentment. This perfect, peaceful afternoon seems to contain the very essence of summer itself.
Near the water’s edge, a barefoot blonde-haired three-year-old boy crouches low, completely absorbed in the world before him. His blue jeans are rolled to the knees as he steps into the lukewarm murky water, feet brushing against the soft mud and slippery algae. Andrew’s tiny hands reach eagerly toward his feet and a cloud of sediment disturbs the surrounding water. His determined eyes reflect the pond surface as he tries to catch the elusive frogs that leap and splash just out of reach. Every time a frog slips away, Andrew’s face scrunches in concentration, his golden brow furrowing as he plots his next move.
Watching from the porch, I feel the urge to study the shape of him, with dirty knees, hair wild, and cheeks flushed with summer. I smile, waving encouragement, but my chest aches with the weight of what is coming. In a few short weeks, this pond, this homestead, our home of five years, will belong to someone else. The frogs will leap for other children, and the sun will set on different faces. I try to root myself in the moment, to let the warmth of the day and the joy in Andrew’s eyes completely fill my heart, but the knowledge of our impending move threads through my happiness, tightening into something poignant and precious.
This pond bore witness to my own personal growth as I learned to become a mother, deepened my relationship with my husband, and had moments of intense joy and agonizing struggle. Here is where we hosted countless cookouts, campfires, and nature walks with family and friends. Leaving feels like closing a chapter of my own story.
With a sudden splash, he emerges from the water with a frog, holding it a little too tightly in his hands as it attempts to wriggle away. Andrew’s delighted laughter carries a joyful, pure, infectious energy as he calls me over to admire his trophy, pants completely soaked. I walk toward my son as he clutches his frog, eyes squinting against the sunlight. I kneel in the grass beside Andrew and observe both the frog’s slick skin and legs tensing to spring. I reach out to steady his hand and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just the four of us: Andrew, the frog, me, and Andrew’s unborn sibling kicking in my womb.
His wonder-filled eyes and rudimentary language work hard to persuade me to keep this frog as a pet as he prepares a makeshift house comprised of a plastic coffee can full of water and a couple sticks. As he looks at me, I try to memorize the sound of the breeze in the cattails, the way the pond smells of earth and water, the exact shade of green on the frog’s back. Every detail feels urgent, as if I can hold onto this place by sheer force of will to preserve for both my children. I cannot escape the fact that this memory is being made even as it slips away, colored by the bittersweet certainty that some joys can only be borrowed, never kept.
The meaning of this moment is not lost on me. My child wants to keep this frog as much as I want to make this moment stretch forever. He has connected with a wild, living creature and felt its energy. But the frog cannot be kept forever, and holding on for too long will only hurt it. In the same way, me clinging to life’s transient joys and sorrows will only lead to disappointment and loss.
With watery eyes and softer tone than I intend, I urge Andrew to release the frog back to the pond. I encourage him to appreciate his brief time with the frog, but the frog’s nature is to leap, move, and be free. He looks blankly at me, oblivious to the undercurrent in my words or my tear-streaked face. For a moment, I envy him his innocence. After some thought, he reluctantly liberates the frog, and we watch as it vanishes below the pond surface with a flash. I commend Andrew for his empathy for all living things.
As I watch him immediately crouch down to try catching another frog, I reflect on the parallels of this moment to my own current struggles. Andrew honored the frog’s nature and the flow of life. Similarly, I need to embrace change for me to grow, adapt, and appreciate the beauty of each moment. Just as I have encouraged Andrew to cherish his brief encounter with the frog, my impending move urges me to be fully present and savor this moment by the pond, knowing that this may be my last memory here. Embracing the fact that each moment is transient is what makes our experiences richer, our relationships deeper, and our gratitude more profound.
We are moving back to our childhood hometown to make space for new and strengthened connections, revisited childhood memories, and renewed growth. I must trust that the next chapter will bring its own unforgettable moments as we welcome another child into the world while continuing to provide Andrew with rich experiences. I allow myself to feel both grief and optimism and remind myself that there is a unique beauty in the ephemeral impermanence of life. I carry the most meaningful gifts, the memories, lessons, and love, from this place no matter where life takes me. I pause to honor this space for its teachings and guidance over the past five years and prepare to say a heartfelt goodbye.
Watching Andrew catch and release frogs has reminded me that I cannot hold on to anything forever, but I can cherish each memory, embrace change, and find beauty in the dance of constant transformation. In letting go, I invite myself to truly live.
Did you ever have trouble letting something go? Share your stories below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.
Practical Homesteading 
Leave a comment