A tentative spring arrived at the pond behind my house. A network of green water plants unfolds in the shallow area as the pine and hardwood screen behind my porch fills in the space left empty during winter de-greening. The frogs are back in full force, a concert in D minor offered each evening.

If it sounds romantic, I’ll free you of the notion.

The pond is a mess. Once touted as the feature of this entry-level community, it’s now the neighborhood thorn. The problems began when the builder handed over green-space management to us homeowners.

A colony of beaver made themselves at home. The juncture where a natural spring feeds the pond was blocked by the pesky critters. Those dam critters.

Community leaders procrastinated. It wasn’t long before the water level dropped. Enter the opportunistic plants. Before we knew it, the once peaceful pond was a stinking stew on the verge of a fish kill.

I saw the disaster coming. I shared with our leaders, politely but persistently, to no avail. Two years ago, they surveyed neighbors for input on the pond’s future. Mine was one of only a few responses. In short, no one cares. The few who walk the path around the mud puddle on a regular basis live on the water. Everyone else is unconcerned.

The return memo shared that Panther Creek has determined it will let the pond return to being a marsh. On the surface, it sounds reasonable, natural and even preferrable. The problem is the mud puddle was never a marsh. It’s an ages-old pond filled with large bass now neglected by a community of interlopers who don’t care. The stinking mess becomes worse every season. And the HOA simply doesn’t have the concern or experience to fix it. The fix is a twice-annual call to a local pond-management company. Oh, and paying the twice-annual bill. Simple enough.

I heard someone say once our job as humans is to learn to ask for what we want, what we need – and then to accept what we receive. Life is an ongoing process occupied bythe same pop quiz on repeat.

Last year I finally relented and decided to accept the fate of the pond that rests feet behind my picket fence. I once cleared the space between my lawn and the water each winter, sure to clear only the new brush so as to respect the order of things. Now I’m content to let nature simply do her thing. I don’t want to see the overgrown muck come summer, so letting the screen fill in makes perfect sense.

I was pushing the river, or more fittingly, pushing the pond. Don’t push the river; it flows itself. The aphorism of Barry Stevens is all too true. What a relief to let go of the fight – to maintain the pond, to push uphill the boulder of clearing the brush between us so I can enjoy the perfect view.

Having given up the fight, I find I’m more at ease. My once closely held ideal of life as a homeowner is now reconciled with the reality. In Mitzi’s special world, there would be unicorns and rainbows surrounding the glitter-adorned pond of happy fish in sight of banks filled with native bluets. But the world is in fact not ideal. It rarely is.

Instead, I’m free to experience what is, to release control, to cease forcing life to meet my plans.

There’s beauty now instead of frustration in watching the transition of seasons at the water. The opportunistic grasses are native. They’re comfortable here, and completely unapologetic for taking what’s rightly theirs. The same is true of the unruly beaver, who slap the water with their tails so loudly at night it sounds like dynamite. Every so often you can see a big bruiser confidently strut down the path, as though they own it, which they do.

The bluets, though, remain. I see them when I walk with the dogs on the south trail on an partly-cloudy bank on water’s edge. The blue heron, hawk, and osprey also remain. I’m more aware of them in my new state of un-control. The new marshland bring muskrats and other creatures we might not otherwise see.

Our pond is a wise metaphor for life. The harder we try to influence its flow, the tougher the ride.

I’ll take a walk on her banks tomorrow and offer gratitude for the lesson.