I was thinking, or was I being thought? Good question. When a whale in the wide open ocean, or a stag within forest cover, or, even the frog I found in my kitchen this morning, looks at me, I do wonder who is looking at who, or is it whom? The wee frog shifted its unrestrained eyeballs this way, that, up and down, over and above and wotwot, unlike my looking, which is forwards, pretty much. Such a limitation, I said to said frog, as I lifted it’s cold wee body out into danger, aka, the outdoors. How it got in infiltrates my thinking. Not that I mind. We are all travellers, from one season to another, from one state to another, from sleep to awareness, from one birthday to the next. But this frog stopped me, thought me. Beyond the how-the-hell-did-you-get-here questioning (and I am quick to beyond myself from that poibntless question) I wondered about the help thing. My help. I did not squeal nor pull back in revulsion and call the fire brigade or, worse, pest control. No, indeed. I hunkered down, best I could, and watched its eyes, felt its fear as it froze on tile number 17. I only know this because, in my oldness it helps to count my way in the dark. I liked being 17. Finally I was free of curfew and about to find the damn lunatic with whom I fell in love, and who fathered five astonishing individuals. I digress.

We all walk singular. Oh yes, we join others, conjoin with a few, stick with one or two, but, even within those comforting boundaries, we are still singular. I am still me, and that me can cause much eyeball switch. Change comes, to one, to another and the timing is always off, or so I have found. So how hard it can be to retain self when others want, or appear to want, me to change shape in order to fit. We all build our protections, and, yet, when we meet a rigidity, we are thrown. And what we do, all of us, initially at least, is to doubt ourselves. What did I do wrong? Is my change a bad thing? And, sadly, many of us slink back into the dark of those unnerving questions. I certainly did. But, as we do that slinking thing, which is, to be clear, safe passage, we lose our singularity and our voice is silenced. We have watched this scenario played out in many films, cheered the one who rose, naked and scared and singular into their own light, risking the wrath of anyone at Ground Control.

It takes courage to stand strong. I don’t know the way, can’t find the words, have no plan beyond the truth that I will stand for this no more, allow this no more, will not bend my shape. I know this place and, trust me, singularity is not single. Not at all. There are a gazillion singulars on heretofore unknown paths, feeling the fear, pushing on in trust and faith. You will find them, as I did.

As the frog found me.