A green frog the size of a dime lives in our rose bush. Sometimes he sits all the long day on a leaf with which he blends perfectly. Above him tiny lavender flowers from the pedestal planter quiver in sudden breeze. To the sunward side another rose leaf acts as an umbrella. What if I could be still as that? I wonder as I lean over the porch railing to gaze at him. What if I could still my breathing down, be oblivious to the blue jay or the hawk, or, knowing their presence, still accept my situation in this life as one with the pattern of existence? The green frog doesn't move, and I watch until I can't. Is he my guru? Is he my teacher and my saint? Is he my soul, resting there where I can see and maybe, just a little bit, begin to understand?
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