It’s mid-February, and I’m thinking about wood frogs. They’re frozen solid right now, locked in ice, and yet they are still alive. Even in the coldest part of winter, they endure, and in that endurance, they quietly teach lessons about resilience, survival, and the cycles that govern life.

When I was a boy, I found a vernal pool by accident.

I remember walking through the woods and hearing it before I saw it, a rising chorus drifting through the trees. The sound pulled me forward. As I approached, the frogs slipped into the water and the chorus fell silent. What had felt alive with noise became still and glassy, as if nothing had been there at all.

But it was alive.

That pool was a hidden universe. A world operating by rules that had nothing to do with homework, bills, or human urgency. The frogs were bound to temperature, moisture, chemistry, and time, not to opinion or ambition.

As I grew older, life became busy. I stopped visiting as often. But the frogs were always there.

Years later, I brought my son back to that same place, the first vernal pool I ever discovered. I try to keep it quiet. Not because it belongs to me, but because it feels sacred. It is more than water gathered in a low place in the forest. It is a breeding ground for life and for curiosity.

And it is not just that one pool.

All vernal pools are special.

They are temporary by design, filled by snowmelt and spring rain, often drying later in the season. Because fish cannot survive in them, amphibians can. The wood frogs return each year to lay their eggs in these seasonal waters, trusting a cycle that has repeated for thousands of years.

Through their permeable skin, they absorb what is present in that water, both what nourishes and what harms. Their health and their numbers tell a story about the land around them. Long before we build sophisticated machines to measure contamination, nature is already signaling.

Wetlands filter water.
Pools recharge groundwater.
Trees take carbon dioxide and release oxygen.
Bees and ants pollinate without contracts or compensation.

These systems do not ask for praise. They ask for space.

Humanity must progress. We are builders and innovators. But progress does not mean moving forward without thought. It does not mean replacing systems that already work simply because we can.

When wetlands are drained or pools are filled in the name of development, we are not removing inconvenience. We are dismantling infrastructure. Natural infrastructure that filters, buffers, sustains, and balances.

This is not anti-development.
It is not anti-human.

It is pro-human.

When we recognize what is already in place, what quietly serves us, we can build in ways that strengthen those systems rather than replace them with costly imitations.

The wood frogs do not survive because they are the strongest creatures in the forest. They survive because they adapt. Because they gather. Because they respond together when spring comes.

Every year I watch that lonely pool.

Some seasons it overflows with rain. Some years it nearly disappears during drought. There have been moments when I wondered if I was witnessing its slow decline, if in my lifetime it might vanish. Maybe the lessons I have learned will vanish with me. 

But every spring, they return.

The chorus rises again.

I am still that little boy walking toward the sound.

The difference now is that I am not alone. I bring my son. But it’s more than that , it’s about what I do, the work I share, and the people around me. When I show that hidden pool, I am not just pointing out frogs. I am passing on a way of seeing, a way of understanding the world through observation, environmental science, and even technology. Beneath the noise of human life, there are deeper systems sustaining us — systems we can learn from, protect, and use to strengthen our communities together. 

Resilience is not loud.
It is not divisive.
It is not about overpowering.

It is about alignment.
It is about community.
It is about caring for what quietly cares for us.

If the wood frogs can endure frozen winters by working within the system they are given, perhaps we can endure uncertain seasons by doing the same, together. We are stronger together.

I do not want to pass down fear.

I want to pass down wonder. Curiosity. Responsibility. Hope.

When we protect small things, when we give space to wetlands, to pools, to trees, and to the fragile life that depends on them, we are not slowing progress.

We are strengthening our communities.

Every spring they return.

As long as they do, I will keep my promise to the wood frog. I will notice. I will protect. I will teach the next generation why these quiet places matter.

Because if the wood frogs are safe, we are stronger too.

Author’s Note

This article was written by Douglas E. Fessler. The ideas and reflections are my own, drawing on decades of experience in IT, environmental monitoring, STEM education, and community initiatives. AI-assisted tools were used to structure and clarify complex concepts — a reflection, in itself, of the subject explored.