The Return to the Pond

It was the first warm rain of spring. The kind that doesn’t rush, just falls gently, insistently, like a reminder. My boots sank into soft earth as I followed the narrow path behind my cottage, toward the pond I hadn’t visited in months.

Everything smelled of growth, mud, moss, something ancient stirring. And then I saw him.

Toby, the toad. Or at least, I called him that. Year after year, he returned to the same mossy stone at the pond’s edge when the rains came. I had seen him for three springs now, his mottled back and amber eyes always arriving with the season’s first true downpour. I liked to think he remembered me. I certainly remembered him.

Inspiration Doesn’t Always Roar

I had been chasing inspiration like it was a storm, something dramatic and rare. But watching Toby reminded me that some of the most necessary things arrive quietly. A slow rain. A familiar toad. A line of verse spoken not out loud, but felt.

I stayed by the pond until the light shifted and the clouds softened. Toby blinked, adjusted his weight, and nestled deeper into his patch of moss. The moment didn’t need applause. It just needed to be noticed.

Leaving with Less, and More

I didn’t leave the pond with a masterpiece. Just a muddy notebook, damp socks, and the beginning of something honest. But I left with something else too: the understanding that inspiration isn’t something to force. It comes with the rain. With presence. With stillness. And sometimes, with an old toad sitting patiently on a stone.