Behind the Puddle

When I began writing Puddle Stories, I wasn’t trying to create anything. I was actually feeling rather lost and isolated, and this little puddle outside my door had quietly become a place where I could sit, notice, and find pieces of myself again. Eventually, I began sharing some of what I was seeing and thinking, never imagining that very many people would come along with me.

Being seen has not always been comfortable for me. There was a strange safety when only a few people saw something I wrote, because there was also very little opportunity to feel rejected. When some of these stories began reaching hundreds and sometimes thousands of people, I wasn’t prepared for how vulnerable that would feel.

But then something happened that I wasn’t prepared for either. People began answering back.

Some of you left a comment. Some sent me a private message. Some shared your own memories of birds, lakes, aging, grief, family, dementia, ordinary places and the things you have learned by paying attention to them. Some of you simply kept coming back to see what was happening behind the puddle.

Sharon and Almeda, your continued encouragement and the pieces of your own lives that you have shared with me have meant more than I can adequately tell you. Burton wrote to tell me about his own “Tadpole Farm” and said, simply, “The puddle inspires.” Messages like these remind me that perhaps we all have our own version of a puddle; a place that doesn’t need to be remarkable to become meaningful.

And then there are Judy and Ron.

Judy sent me the most beautiful handwritten letter about the Puddle Stories. A couple of Saturdays ago, she and Ron came down to visit carrying a bag of birdseed for our increasingly well-fed neighborhood residents and something Ron had made: a bright orange rebar and horseshoe flower they call a “perpetual bloomer.

We planted it in the bare ground where our future pollinator garden will eventually grow. There aren’t flowers there yet. There aren’t butterflies gathering or native plants filling the space. But thanks to Judy and Ron, somehow the garden already has its first bloom.

We stood together watching the puddle, watched a heron attempt to eat something long that none of us could quite identify, remembered wildlife that had been here before, and talked about our shared history in this little corner of Nevada. There were stories, memories, laughter and so many hugs.

I don’t think I could have imagined any of this when I wrote the first Puddle Story.

At a time when I felt completely lost and isolated, the puddle gave me somewhere to be. It gave me something to notice when my world felt very small. It reminded me that there was still life happening right outside my door and that perhaps I was still part of it.

But the puddle didn’t do all of this by itself. 

You did, too.

Every person who has read a story, left a comment, sent a message, shared a memory, offered encouragement, brought birdseed, made a flower, or simply wondered enough to come see what was Behind the Puddle has walked some part of this journey beside me.

I don’t know all of your names. I don’t know what brought some of you here. And I know there are people reading these words today who have never once commented or introduced themselves. Please know that you count, too.

I’ve spent a great deal of time writing about our human need to be seen, heard, welcomed, remembered and witnessed. Somewhere along the way, without realizing it was happening, all of you were giving some of those very things back to me.

Perhaps that’s one of the things the puddle has been trying to teach me all along.

We notice the heron. We notice the hummingbird. We notice the squirrel carrying away more food than seems physically possible. We notice the geese, the turtles, the rain, the empty feeders and the perpetual flower blooming in bare dirt.

And sometimes, while we’re busy noticing the world, someone notices us. 

Thank you for noticing me.

Thank you for seeing something worthwhile in these stories.

And most of all, thank you for coming to see what was Behind the Puddle.

With more gratitude than I know how to put into words,

Stasia