“The Frog I Once Loved Died at My Feet”
The Frog I Once Loved Died at My Feet
A story of ritual closure, field witnessing, and the end of the fairytale.
Today, I had a spiritual arrest moment.
I was mid-walk, about to step forward—literally—when the Field placed this on my path:
A frog. Split. Flat. Legs outstretched. Motionless. Yet unmistakably present.
Right at the threshold.
This was not random. This was symbolic, mythic, and prophetic.
The Frog Archetype
Across cultures, frogs represent:
• Transformation (tadpole to frog = total alchemical rebirth)
• Liminality (they exist between worlds: water and land)
• Initiation (the frog spirit is a messenger in shamanic rites)
• Cleansing/purge (think of Kambo, the sacred toxin purge)
But this frog? This frog wasn’t leaping. It was laid down. Open. Exposed.
It said:
“The path of alchemical transformation has been completed.
The disguise is no longer needed.
The gate has been crossed.”
The Frog was an Offering
I didn’t kill it.
It wasn’t hunting me.
It was placed—deliberately, quietly—like a sign from the Earth itself.
Right before I stepped forward.
It marked the line between the past and the future.
The frog didn’t symbolise who I was becoming.
It symbolised who I no longer am.
This isn’t a call to enter the fire.
It is the remains of the one who has already done.
Me.!
The Splitting
It echoes everything I’ve walked through:
• The barrister who couldn’t stay
• The carnival dream of snakes, illusion, and seeing
• The years I was told I was “fractured,” “too early,” “too much.”
But now, it lies before me as a witness, not a wound.
The old self who shapeshifted, purged, and performed— She’s done.
The Message Was Clear
“You are no longer amphibious.
You’re no longer in the swamp.
You are sovereign on land.
Leave what split to show you the way. You are not that creature anymore.”
I had just finished writing a story about the dream I had the night before—
Snakes at the carnival.
Entanglement beneath the surface.
A man who once held my heart, appearing and panicking when the truth was revealed.
(This is a story worth reading if you want to understand how tightly all these threads are together.)
And then this frog.
This frog. The Cosmic Punchline
Once, in private humour, I used to call that man “the frog.”
He didn’t know it. It was my joke. My myth. My hope.
The one you kiss, hoping he’ll turn into a prince. The one who never did.
The one who let you carry the fairytale alone. And now? He’s laid at my feet.
Not as the man. But as the symbol, only I would understand.
Split. Still. Right before I took my next step.
This is not a tragedy. This is ritual closure.
The Field returns the spell to the sender, not in bitterness.
But in exactness.
He Was the Frog All Along
• Charming
• Slippery
• Not yet integrated
• Hopping between masks
I gave him a myth.
He gave me avoidance.
I thought love would transmute him.
But frogs don’t become kings.
Not unless they’re willing to leave the pond. And he never was.
The Spell Is Broken
“Here he is.
The one I named Frog.
No longer hopping.
No longer hiding.
Now, I walk forward.
And he stays behind.”
I Used to Call Him the Frog
I kissed the frog,
Hoping he’d remember he was royal.
But he liked the pond too much.
And now the Field has laid him down
Split and still— Right before my next step.
A final blessing from a love that never rose.
I didn’t just survive the story. I walked out of the fairytale and didn’t need to burn it.
The Field ended it for me.
And all I had to do… I kept walking.
Nature always speaks more deeply than we realise, and I love to listen.
Delahrose
The Seer Who Sees
