Behind the Puddle

November 3, 2026 at 11:15 AM

The puddle is full today. The grass is still green, the trees have held on to a little of their autumn color, and the rain has left the patio damp. The water looks inviting, even beneath a sky that can’t seem to decide whether the sun will make an appearance. But there isn’t a goose on the water, a heron along the bank, or a squirrel entertaining us from the trees. Even the bird feeder is quiet, although I suspect the rain-soaked food might have something to do with that.

And here I sit, inside, looking out at a place where I spent so much of the summer.

I have been collecting and organizing the Puddle Stories from this past season, preparing them for a little book I hope to share with some of the people who have enjoyed this journey alongside me. It is something I have been encouraged to do more than once, and although the stories have always been freely available, there is something meaningful about bringing them together. Not because they are extraordinary stories, but because they are ordinary moments that became worth remembering. Somewhere in the process of revisiting those afternoons, the visitors, and the photographs, I found myself wondering what Behind the Puddle had really given me.

Was it the view? Was it the wildlife? Or was it the quiet and peace I experienced simply by being there?

When Brian finished making the patio accessible, being able to sit outside again was exciting all by itself. For a long time, enjoying the outdoors had become something that wasn’t easily available to me. The stairs and physical limitations had made an ordinary pleasure increasingly difficult. The patio changed that. I could go outside, settle into my chair, and enjoy the day without needing a special occasion or a destination.

I don’t think I fully appreciated at the time just how much that ordinary freedom meant.

We had always enjoyed sitting on the deck, but the experience was different. From there, we watched the activity of the neighborhood. Cars passing, people walking, neighbors going about their days, and whatever else happened along the street. The birds, rabbits, geese, and occasional glimpse of Stella or Stanley were always part of the surroundings, but they weren’t necessarily what held my attention. They were simply part of the background.

Then something interesting happened.

The neighborhood didn’t suddenly become less busy, and the wildlife didn’t necessarily begin visiting more often. Their lives continued much as they always had. What changed was what I noticed and what I gave myself time to consider. The people and traffic gradually became the background, while the birds, geese, squirrels, herons, and countless other little visitors became the activity I looked forward to.

Neither had necessarily changed their schedules. I had changed what I noticed.

I think part of that change came from the kind of quiet the puddle offered. It wasn’t the absence of sound or activity. It was the absence of feeling that I needed to interpret every action or understand what someone meant by it. People have their own intentions, opinions, expectations, and relationships, and sometimes simply observing people brings those considerations along with it. The wildlife had intentions of their own, too, but whatever they were doing wasn’t about me.

The geese weren’t concerned with whether I approved of their afternoon. Pinecone wasn’t trying to make an impression, and Stella wasn’t asking me to understand why she had disappeared for a few days. They were simply living their lives, and I had the opportunity to watch without needing to participate, interfere, or explain myself.

There was a wonderful freedom in that.

Over time, those ordinary visitors became familiar. I began recognizing their habits, noticing when someone hadn’t been around, and wondering where they might have gone. Some afternoons brought surprises, while others offered nothing more exciting than a goose grazing in the grass or a squirrel doing whatever it is squirrels find important. I enjoyed the antics, the unexpected appearances, and the occasional mystery of what was happening across the water. But I also enjoyed the afternoons when absolutely nothing remarkable happened.

The patio gave me a place to be, and the visitors gave me something to look forward to while I was there.

Somewhere along the way, those observations became Puddle Stories. A lone goose visiting the yard café became an opportunity to talk with Hadley about respecting wildlife and allowing wild animals to remain wild. Stella returning after several days away became a moment of excitement because Hadley was the first to notice her. Pinecone stopping by was enough to make an ordinary afternoon memorable. Even the evidence left behind by our mysterious Puddle Dinosaur became a reminder that life continues around the puddle whether we happen to witness it or not.

The stories weren’t always about the animals themselves. Sometimes they were about family, growing older, changing seasons, accessibility, or the little things we overlook while going about our lives. The wildlife gave me something to notice, but the meaning often came from what those moments reminded me of in my own life.

And I hadn’t expected any of that when the patio was finished.

Now November has arrived, and the experience is changing again. The days are colder, the rain makes everything damp, and soon Iowa winter will settle in. The patio furniture has been put away, and even on those occasional beautiful winter afternoons, enjoying the space won’t be as simple as settling into my chair for a few hours. The puddle will still be there, and the wildlife will continue going about its business, but my opportunity to share those ordinary hours with them will be different.

I can look through the windows, of course, but it isn’t quite the same.

Outside, I could hear something before I saw it, catch movement from the corner of my eye, or notice a visitor arriving while I was paying attention to something entirely different. I didn’t have to watch for something to happen. I simply had to be there long enough to notice when it did. From inside, I might catch a glimpse if I happen to be at the right window at the right time, but I miss everything that happens before and after that little moment.

And I have discovered that I really do miss them.

I wonder where the familiar visitors have gone, whether those who have left for the season will return, and what new faces we might meet when spring arrives. I know the changing seasons bring different habits and different needs for wildlife. Their absence isn’t necessarily unusual, and I certainly don’t expect them to remain here for my entertainment. Still, I miss watching them go about their ordinary days.

I don’t need them to do anything special. I just wish I could share a little more time with them.

That realization surprised me as I worked through the stories. I had wondered whether it was the view, the visitors, or the internal quiet that made Behind the Puddle meaningful. I don’t think there is a single answer anymore. The patio returned access to something I had been missing. The quiet gave me room to notice things differently. The visitors offered curiosity, familiarity, and an unexpected kind of companionship. And the stories grew from the opportunity to reflect on what I was experiencing.

None of those things happened independently of the others.

I have often encouraged people to find their own puddle. I have never meant that everyone needs water, wildlife, or a patio overlooking a little neighborhood ecosystem. I meant finding somewhere that allows you to be yourself, without expectations or the feeling that you must accomplish something to justify being there. A place where you can pause, notice, and enjoy whatever an ordinary day happens to offer.

But perhaps my own puddle has taught me something more about that invitation.

Finding your own puddle might not be only about finding somewhere peaceful. It might also be about finding a place where you can participate in ordinary life in a way that works for you. Somewhere you can be curious without obligation, connected without being needed, and present without being evaluated. Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t what happens while you’re there, but having the freedom and opportunity to be there in the first place.

And sometimes, without realizing it, you begin to care deeply about the ordinary lives that share that space with you.

As I continue gathering the Puddle Stories for the collection, I am reminded that I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed those little moments. Others followed along, asked about familiar visitors, laughed at their antics, and shared memories or observations of their own. Some have encouraged me to put the stories into a book, and that encouragement is the reason I am revisiting them now. What began as my opportunity to enjoy the outdoors became something I could share with people who weren’t sitting beside me on the patio.

That is something I don’t want to lose while arranging the stories into pages.

I don’t know what winter will bring to Behind the Puddle. Perhaps there will be occasional visitors, unexpected moments, or entirely different things worth noticing. Perhaps the Puddle Stories will become less frequent until spring returns. I don’t believe I need to manufacture stories simply to keep them going, any more than the trees need to hold on to their leaves to prove that they are still growing.

There is value in allowing a season to be what it is.

For now, I can appreciate the photographs, revisit the stories, and remember the afternoons that offered far more than I anticipated. I can miss the patio without forgetting what it gave me, and I can miss the visitors without expecting them to remain simply because I enjoyed their company. Their lives continue beyond the little pieces I have been fortunate enough to witness.

And when spring finally arrives, I know I will be excited to have the patio available again. But I also know I will be looking toward the water, the trees, and the yard, wondering who has returned and who might be visiting for the first time.

Because somewhere along the way, Behind the Puddle became more than a peaceful place to sit.

It became a place where I looked forward to sharing a little of the day with lives that were simply being lived around me.

And perhaps that is one of the loveliest things about finding your own puddle. You may begin by looking for somewhere to be, only to discover something you never knew you were missing.

For now, the puddle is quiet. The visitors are elsewhere, the chairs are put away, and winter is getting closer. But the stories remain, and so does the joy of having been there to notice them.