When people first hear me talk about “the puddle,” they often imagine a small pond tucked behind a few houses. They picture a pleasant view, a handful of ducks, maybe a walking path. They aren’t wrong. But they also aren’t seeing the whole story.
The puddle is approximately 11.5 acres, nestled into a neighborhood in Nevada, Iowa, just south of Highway 30. Lake Shore Drive gently curves around its northern shoreline, while mature timber borders much of the eastern side. It isn’t a public lake. The homeowners whose properties reach the shoreline share ownership of the lake itself, and the residents of the neighboring Southwoods Drive community continue to enjoy lake access through rights that were established during the area’s original development. On paper, those are simply facts. But a place is never defined only by a map.
Long before I ever lived here, I almost did. In 1990, while my first husband and I were searching for our first home through the Farmers Home Administration program, a house at the end of what was then called Micheals Street was for sale. The road stopped where Lake Shore Drive now begins. We never purchased the house. Life carried us somewhere else. Yet something about this neighborhood stayed with me.
Years later, after Larry and Connie Krupp had developed the Lake Shore Drive neighborhood and life had unfolded in ways none of us could have predicted, I eventually found myself living here after all. Sometimes I wonder if places have a way of waiting for us.
Today, when I sit on our paver patio, I realize I wasn’t searching for a house all those years ago. I was searching for a place where I could belong. The patio itself wasn’t built simply to make our backyard prettier. It was built because chronic pain and mobility changes had slowly taken away many of the simple pleasures I loved. Walking through uneven grass had become difficult. Standing for long periods wasn’t possible. I needed a place where I could comfortably spend time outdoors again. What began as an accessibility project quietly became something much larger. It became home.
From my chair, the puddle has introduced me to neighbors I had never truly met before. Not only the people. The wildlife.
There is Stella and Stanley, our pair of Great Blue Herons, who have taught me that even majestic creatures sometimes slip climbing a muddy bank or chase each other through the trees like playful children.
There is Lone Goose, who somehow found his way into my heart simply by returning day after day.
There is Shelly, the elusive turtle who reminds me that not every neighbor wants to be known, and that respect can sometimes look like allowing someone to remain quietly themselves.
The mallard families return each spring.
The squirrels, especially Pinecone, have become regular visitors.
The rabbits we affectionately call “the Tacos” wander through the yard.
Purple Martins circle overhead thanks to a neighbor who has cared for them faithfully for years. Cardinals, Blue Jays, woodpeckers, hummingbirds, dragonflies, butterflies, beavers, deer, foxes, coyotes, hawks, vultures, and countless sparrows have each found their place here.
The puddle has become less of a destination and more of a neighborhood where everyone belongs. Watching nature has changed the way I see people. That may sound surprising coming from someone whose professional work revolves around death education, advance care planning, and helping families have difficult conversations. Yet they are more connected than many people realize.
Every day I help people think about the future, not because I expect the worst, but because I believe preparation is an act of love. Advance directives are often viewed as legal paperwork or medical forms. I see something different:
I see conversations.
I see opportunities to ask what matters most.
I see families learning to truly hear one another before a crisis ever arrives.
Sitting behind the puddle has strengthened that belief. Nature never rushes understanding. It simply keeps showing up.
I’ve learned that presence accomplishes things productivity never can. The birds don’t care how many emails I’ve answered. The herons don’t know what certifications I hold. The geese have never once asked what I accomplished that day. Instead, they invite me into something much quieter.
Observe.
Notice.
Be patient.
Witness.
Accept.
These have become some of the Waypoints that now guide not only my writing, but my work with others.
One of my favorite discoveries has been realizing that this little 11.5-acre lake isn’t isolated at all. From above, it is surrounded by homes, farmland, and woodland. From my chair, it feels like an entire ecosystem:
Children fish from the shore.
Neighbors wave as they walk by.
The changing Iowa seasons repaint the landscape over and over again.
Heavy rains raise the water.
Summer heat brings dragonflies.
Autumn fills the trees with migrating birds.
Winter reminds everything to rest.
No two days are exactly alike. Neither are we.
People sometimes ask why I write these stories. The answer has become surprisingly simple. Because ordinary places deserve to be remembered. Communities are built as much by quiet observations as they are by major events.
A conversation across a fence.
A boy fishing along the shoreline.
A neighbor caring for Purple Martins.
A turtle slipping beneath the water.
A patio chair that gave someone their world back.
These moments rarely make the history books. But they become the history of our lives.
When I named this project Behind the Puddle, I thought I was describing a location. Now I realize I was describing a perspective. Behind every neighborhood is a history. Behind every map is a community. Behind every person is a story. And behind this little body of water in central Iowa, I found far more than birds and reflections. I found a place that reminded me,
How to slow down
How to pay attention.
How to witness.
How to belong.
The puddle may only cover a handful of acres. But from one patio chair, it has become an entire world.
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