The Pond's Whisper

The man sat by the pond, staring at the glassy surface that shimmered beneath the soft glow of the evening sun. The day had been long, and the weight of unanswered questions clung to his shoulders. Life had become a series of blurred motions—work, eat, sleep—over and over. He felt adrift, like a leaf carried on a river, going somewhere, but nowhere in particular.

His hands picked at the grass, tugging at blades one by one as the wind rustled through the trees. The stillness around him was comforting, but it did little to silence the noise in his head.

Suddenly, there was a soft plop from the water.

Looking up, he saw a frog perched on a rock at the edge of the pond. Its large, unblinking eyes were fixed on him, and for a moment, the man felt a strange connection, as if the small creature was watching him with intent. He chuckled at the absurdity of it—here he was, on the verge of an existential crisis, and now he was staring at a frog.

"Why do you look so lost?" a voice asked.

Startled, the man looked around. There was no one else at the pond. The only thing nearby was the frog, who now seemed to be regarding him with something akin to curiosity.

"Did you just—?"

"Speak? Yes," the frog replied, its voice calm and measured. "And you, human, seem to have a lot on your mind."

The man blinked. "I must be losing it," he muttered.

"Not losing it," the frog said, hopping closer, "just searching for something. Something you think is missing."

The man shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or engage in conversation with this amphibious philosopher. But something about the frog’s tone was soothing, and after the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind all day, a conversation—even with a frog—seemed like a welcome distraction.

"Okay," the man said, leaning back on his hands, "I'll bite. What do you think I'm missing?"

The frog blinked slowly, its throat pulsing in and out before it spoke again. "Depth," it said. "You're looking for meaning in the surface of things. You think life is about figuring out where you're going or what you're achieving, but you're forgetting the water below."

The man stared at the frog, unsure how to respond. He gazed back at the pond, watching as ripples spread across the surface. Beneath that thin layer of water, there was a whole world hidden from view—fish, plants, stones, currents. The surface told only part of the story.

"You mean life isn’t about what we do?" he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.

"It’s about how you exist in it," the frog replied. "What you feel. How you breathe. How you touch the lives around you. You humans are always rushing—always trying to make something happen. You forget that the pond stays still, and yet everything inside it thrives. Sometimes, stillness is just as powerful as motion."

The man was silent for a long moment, letting the frog’s words wash over him. He had always felt like he needed to be doing something, moving toward a goal, pushing through obstacles. But maybe…maybe he had been so focused on the future that he had forgotten how to live in the present.

"I feel like I’m constantly trying to figure out what life wants from me," the man confessed, the weight in his chest easing slightly as he spoke.

The frog gave a quiet croak. "Life doesn’t want anything from you," it said gently. "It only asks that you live it—fully. There is no grand puzzle to solve, no ultimate meaning to discover. You are the meaning. The way you smile, the way you breathe in the morning air, the way you feel when the sun sets on days like this. That’s enough."

The man looked at the horizon, where the sky had begun to melt into shades of gold and lavender. The breeze had softened, carrying with it the scent of wet grass and the distant chirping of crickets. Everything felt calm, as if the world had been listening to their conversation and was now offering its silent agreement.

"I never thought of it that way," the man said after a while. His voice was quieter now, more reflective.

"You’re not supposed to," the frog said with a slow blink. "It’s not something to think about. It’s something to feel."

The man nodded, the noise in his head settling into something softer, something manageable. He let his gaze fall back to the pond, to the way the surface shimmered under the fading light. It was so simple—just water and light, and yet, it was beautiful.

"Thank you," the man said, turning back to the frog.

But the rock was empty.

The frog had gone, leaving only the gentle ripples where it had been. The man smiled, a warm feeling spreading through him. Maybe the frog was right. Maybe life wasn’t meant to be so complicated. Maybe it was enough to simply be—to breathe, to feel, to live.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he watched the sky darken into night. For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t seem so urgent. He was here, now, and that was enough.

The pond whispered back to him in the language of stillness, and he listened.