11/11/2025
🪷 The Frog Path and the Faith That Follows - 2025-07-14
I stepped into the forest to escape the noise.
Builders were in the house, and the air inside was full of dust, hammering, and tension.
My nervous system needed space to stretch, to breathe, to find stillness.
So I walked.
Not far.
Just into the green.
It was damp and quiet, clouds heavy overhead, birds singing somewhere unseen.
I meant to walk quickly—burn some tension, find clarity in movement.
But the forest had another plan.
As soon as I stepped onto the path, I saw movement.
Tiny flickers at my feet.
At first, I thought they were giant ants.
But then I looked closer—really looked—and realized I was surrounded by baby frogs.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Scattered across the forest floor, blending into the soil, so small they were nearly invisible unless they moved.
My first instinct was to walk faster.
To keep going.
To get out of there before I crushed one.
But that made no sense.
So I stopped.
I began to walk again—this time slowly.
Carefully.
With reverence.
One mindful step at a time.
A kind of frog-path meditation.
And then I sat.
I perched on a moss-covered rock and listened.
The ravens called from somewhere above.
The frogs—tiny and fearless—hopped around me, their bodies the colour of earth.
Just being alive.
Looking for food.
Hanging out with their friends.
Unaware of the danger my big human feet posed.
And I started to think.
Right now, in our lives—mine and Jacob’s—we’re in a place of deep uncertainty.
Our house is for sale.
And the bureaucrats say we can't sell...
Our dream is to buy a piece of land.
To live more in tune with the earth.
To create a gathering place.
But nothing is settled.
Nothing is secure.
And I’ll be honest with you:
I’m scared.
I’ve Googled divination more than once, desperate for a sign.
I’ve prayed harder than I ever have before.
I’ve said out loud, to Spirit, to the wind, “Please help us.”
I’ve wanted someone—anyone—to tell me it’s going to be okay.
But here’s what the frogs reminded me:
We can’t live our whole lives hiding under a rock, afraid of getting stepped on.
Because then—nothing happens.
No growth.
No connection.
No magic.
Sometimes we have to leap.
Even if it means we might get hurt.
Even if it means the path is unclear.
Even if it means we have to walk slower than we planned.
So I slowed down.
I let the mosquitoes bite.
I let the forest speak.
I let the fear be there.
And I remembered something a friend sent me—
a grainy black-and-white clip from an old film, where a voice says:
“If you wake up in the morning and say,
‘I truly believe something wonderful is going to happen today,’
and if you fall asleep saying,
‘I truly believe something wondrous will happen tomorrow,’
then it will.”
That’s the kind of faith I’m cultivating now.
The slow, earthy kind.
Because today, a training device we needed for Jacob arrived—for free.
Because builders showed up to help, even when we weren’t sure we could afford it.
Because we’re still alive.
I don’t know what will happen with the house, or the land, or the next chapter.
Maybe it’s not the land we thought.
Maybe it’s something else.
But I do know this:
One day, Jacob and I will sit in the sun—
with champagne or tea—
and look out over the place we’re meant to tend.
There will be trees.
Bees.
Boars.
Frogs.
There will be people.
There will be ceremony.
There will be healing.
And we’ll say, “We made it.”
Because we are here to do important work.
We’re not here to rush.
We’re here to listen.
To walk the slow path.
The frog path.
And now…
the frogs have cleared the way.
I know the path.
I know the way home.
🪷
