January 30, 2020
At eight o'clock, I had turned off my alarm and opened the kitchen door, wondering if I'd see the toad again, but except for faded leaves, the stone step had been empty. Disappointed, I had reluctantly closed the door. My meetings with the toad had ended.
January 31, 2020
My alarm had gone off, and expecting no more visits, I had opened the door—then stopped dead.
"Oh God . . . Hello!" I managed. The toad was sitting in the same position on the rough cement as on the preceding nights. I sat down in my previous position. "Is this fine? Not too close?" Was I doing this correctly? The toad then repeated his explanation of how it had been chosen to meet me. I was comfortable listening . . . speaking . . . for the toad had set a tone of acceptance, as if we'd known each other for years. And that was the truth the toad then spoke. In a former lifetime, this soul had been my husband. When this soul learned that its message was to come to me in the form of a frog, it chose to take on this toad form for reasons of wintertime protection, while still keeping to the scientific classification of Amphibia that both frogs and toads belong to.
The toad then spoke its final words firmly. Totally unprepared for them, they surprised me. Once the toad had left, I was to stop checking. It would not be returning. Twice more, the message had been repeated. That night, and the following night, my urge to look had been so strong that I'd taken a drastic measure and reset my alarm to seven. It has stayed set at seven—for love.
My realization is, "Detailed experiences of communication among humans and creatures can be read about in articles and books. Yet each of us cannot know when it might be our turn for an encounter with an awakening to oneness."