Summer Fish

On a still summer day, the surface of a pond can become a kind of mirror. Leaves and branches appear again in the water, their shapes softened by light and motion. For a moment, the reflection seems complete and peaceful. Then the rain begins. Each drop breaks the image into circles, fragments, and flashes, until what had seemed whole is scattered across the surface.

Yet beneath that changing surface, life continues. Large fish move through deeper water, untroubled by the broken reflections above them. They do not mistake the surface for the whole world. The rain may blur the sky, erase the leaves, and stir the water, but the fish remain held by something deeper and more enduring than what can be seen from above.

The rain also brings unexpected gifts. Seeds, insects, and bits of leaves are washed from the trees and carried into the pond. The fish cannot summon the rain or control what it brings. They simply continue their lives until, now and then, something nourishing drifts within reach. Perhaps there is even a kind of delight in it—a pleasant tickle of surprise when the world offers more than expected.

Our lives, too, are often shaped by changes we cannot control. Plans are interrupted, familiar images are broken, and the surface of things becomes difficult to read. In those moments, we may find wisdom in remembering the fish below: grounded in deeper waters, open to what arrives, and ready to receive unexpected grace. We cannot command the rain, but we can trust that even disturbance may carry nourishment, renewal, and gifts we could not have planned.

Board of Trustees