This morning, a familiar shape slipped quietly along the edge of the puddle.
Our little beaver.
Years ago, one of its kind claimed a tree in our yard for a meal. Many people would have seen only the damage. I remember seeing the tree, but I also remember thinking, We have a beaver.
Today, there are no mature trees left for it to bother. It simply appears from the shelter of the female tree, glides across the water with quiet purpose, and disappears again into the places where beavers belong.
I’ve never wanted to get close enough to make it friendly.
I don’t need it to know me.
I just enjoy knowing it is there.
Watching the puddle has slowly changed what “enough” means to me.
I don’t need a flock of herons.
I don’t need dozens of geese.
I don’t need wildlife performing on cue.
One beaver.
One turtle.
One squirrel.
One lone goose stopping by for breakfast.
One ordinary moment.
That is enough.
Perhaps that is one of the quietest lessons this little puddle has offered me.
We spend so much of life believing that joy comes from having more.
The puddle keeps reminding me that sometimes joy arrives one visitor at a time.
And if we are paying attention, one is plenty.
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