Frogs

 July 26, 2026

Drive to the Farmer’s Market for bluejay peanuts and sauces the farm ladies make that I have not yet tasted. Incredible traffic jams on I-26 turned that into an ordeal. 

The most amazing peace at the moment, I painting on a little river scene, Renaissance music coming from Alexa, the calling of frogs through the window from the sultry night. It has been a turbulent week, so the peace is doubly precious. It was available to me the whole time, but I felt something was being achieved by cultivating turbulence, like an arm of the sea convinced it can break through the cliffs if it just tried hard enough. 

O, I was so terrible most of my life. Why do I see it now? There can be no hope of amends– most of those who could have been damaged by me are dead. Why even think of it? Am I meant to take this as proof of Afterlife, that all that late-come wisdom should not be wasted? The crying of the frogs are benediction. Perhaps I am forgiven. Perhaps it has all been forgotten except by me.