Beneath the Surface: The Quiet Stirrings of the Garden Pond

Beneath the Surface: The Quiet Stirrings of the Garden Pond

Silence envelops my garden like a shroud, but beneath the stillness, a world thrives—the heart of my personal universe pumps in the rhythm of trickling waters, a water feature both my solace and my burden. The envy of the neighbors? Perhaps. But this pond, it's an entity that feeds off my soul, a reflection of the very essence of life.

I imagine the neighbors peering over the fence, their eyes a mixture of admiration and something else, something less noble. It matters little. Each adornment in my pond is a choice laden with the weight of introspection—a reflection of my inner turbulence made physical, aquatic.

The pond breathes in all shapes and sizes, its surface adorned with water lilies caressing the air, bull rushes and reeds stretching towards the heavens like skeletal fingers in prayer. Yet, it's the life that thrums beneath, the silver flash of fish darting through liquid shadows, that defines its appeal.

A word of caution whispered like a ghost's touch to the unheeded—where children dance on the cusp of curiosity and danger, safety is a mantra to be repeated with reverence.

This aquatic theatre demands a choreographer's eye. Ponds, they are like the needy chasms of our hearts, requiring constant tending, a cleansing from the silted sorrows of yesterday. Fish, those scintillating swimmers, need sustenance. Their meals are a question frequently posed by those like me, who find in their swirling existence echoes of our own uncertainty. Just how much to feed, and what? Certainties elude us—the amount of sustenance to give, ever-changing as our whims.

Size, appetite, a delicate dance of digestion navigated amid the fluctuating ballet of temperatures. Starting from early spring to the cusp of winter, these creatures that cleave to the water's womb are voracious, animated by a life-force that invites daily offerings to their silent calls for food. Offer, and they will grace you with presence or absence, a choice they, not we, dictate. Come winter, their inertia reminds us of our own times of stasis, when nourishment seems an unwelcome guest.

I've watched my fish swim in that liminal space between sustenance and starvation. It's a delicate balance, this cycle—feed not from obligation, but respect for their well-being. High-protein pellets transform the surface into a stage, the fish ascending like shades into the light as they seek their meal.

The garden, once mere shadow and thought, now burgeons with life. Foliage, shrubs, and flowers emitting sighs of fragrance—they, too, become conspirators in the cycle of the pond. When the symphony of plants hums its seductive lure, the insects arrive, a smorgasbord for the fish that renders my hand-feeding obsolete, until autumn weaves its golden spell, and the dance begins anew.

In this haven I've crafted—where the stench of decay mingles with the perfume of growth—unexpected tenants arrive. Toads, newts, frogs; they understand the ebb and flow of this microcosm better than any spectator could. It's not adornment that draws them, but the promise of life.

Yes, the neighbors envy the serenity, the tableau vivant of my making, but it's the sanctuary I've provided to nature's aquatic denizens that carves the deepest grooves in my stilled heart. In this water feature, I see not only my reflection but the face of life itself—ever evolving, ever enduring.