text: There is a newt, laying on leaf litter, waiting for rain. Soon, it will slip under their cover, and head for the vernal pool. It’s spring now, and the pool will dry up by summer. The newt knows this, just as it knows it will rain, it can feel it in the air passing through its body. It idly listens to the birds and bugs buzzing around the forest. Though they are not idly buzzing, they are talking and singing to one another, sharing stories between trees. Unlike them, the newt is solitary, and lives in silence. It has no way of communicating from afar. But it would like to see another of its kind. An ancient memory arises. One where the newt was small, and its tail long and fish-like. It’s swimming in the vernal pool, alongside many others of its kind. The newt feels calm among them, enveloped in the warm, deep water of late spring. The clouds have exhausted themselves of their downpours, and the air is soft and wet. The newt can’t yet move on land, it can only wiggle. All the newts wiggle together, wiggling toward their destination. The memory fades, and the newt can’t remember where it was they were going. A light drizzle begins, whispering through the trees. Drops occasionally fall from their branches onto the newt. It flinches at these drops, but not with annoyance. They just mean it’s time to go. It starts slowly, first picking up its limbs from the leaves and putting them down again. It blinks twice, then raises its head. Finally, it begins dragging its body forward. This is not easy in the damp leaves, as they stick to the newt's slimy skin. Fallen twigs and lichens latch on too, increasing the burden. The journey to the pool is long. If the rain doesn’t pick up, then the entire effort may be a waste. But the newt pushes this thought aside and crawls on, getting lost in the rhythm of its body. Thinking of potential failure is pointless. Rain is never guaranteed, so the newt must try when the opportunity arises. It’s determined, by instinct and by will, together as one. At last, the wind and rain pick up, developing into a breezy shower. A low-hanging mist forms alongside this, blanketing the surface of the earth. The mist hushes the birds and bugs, they are not comfortable singing where they cannot see. Frogs take this as a sign it’s their turn, and begin producing a low chorus. Their chorus, along with the shrouding mist, consumes the forest. No sound can cut through them. The other animals must yield, and wait to be heard again. The newt is close now. Excited by the growing rains, it dives down, submerging itself in a sea of leaves. It slithers from leaf to leaf, only periodically using its limbs to stay upright. The newt can move more quickly when things are wet. But it wants to swim. Small puddles form, rising above the lowest leaves. What were once fine needles, slowly falling and hardly penetrating the soil, have swollen into plump beads, hurling from the sky and soaking everything they touch. The rain permeates the newt’s amphibious skin, but it doesn’t mind. It prefers it this way, enjoying its water-born strength. Bliss soon overcomes its body, and subsequently its mind. In this bliss, the newt forgets its mission entirely. Instinct alone keeps it moving forward. The newt stops, something has pulled it from its trance. A worm, squirming in a puddle. It writhes at the surface of the water, helplessly suspended in emptiness. Both sides of its body pull away from its center, frantically reaching for the security of the earth. Eventually, it finds a hold and begins digging. Anchored to the earth on one end and squirming on the other, the worm is like a blade of grass, being buffeted by a river's current. But unlike grass, the worm's movements are forced, and stand out to the passing newt. The newt hesitates for a moment, watching the worm struggle to attach itself more deeply into the earth. But the worm will not get that chance. Abruptly, and with little effort, the newt plucks the stranded creature. Three chomps and the worm is gone. The newt continues its journey on a full stomach, swimming across the small puddles that have formed in the rain. The puddles get larger as it goes, not because of the growing downpour, but because the land is slowly declining. Soon there is no land, and the newt finds itself floating aimlessly in the vernal pool. It is looking for something, but it cannot see past the dense mist. It decides there is only one way to go. The newt dives down. The water is clear and calm, having slowly been filled by the spring rains. There are no fish in the pool, only invertebrates and other amphibians. This is essential, as it makes the pool the only safe place for their young. The newt's eyes are drawn to movement near the ground. Other newts are there, swimming from one patch of open earth to another. Some are chasing each other, and others are swimming together in lines, with heads trailing closely behind tails. Eventually, one approaches the newt. They brush their nose against the newt's tail before descending again. The newt descends too, following them into the depths. Mostly, the newt is driven by simple curiosity. But something stirs at the back of its mind, something vaguely familiar, yet something the newt has no recollection of. The newt catches up to them. They are swimming in small circles, hovering silently over the dark earth. The newt follows their lead for a while, until they both come to rest on the ground. Slowly, the newt climbs onto their back, rubbing its chin on their nose. It does not know why it does this, but it feels like this is what it must do. It then wags its tail, releasing pheromones and awakening long-forgotten instincts. Appearance is irrelevant to newts, and to their ancient rituals, rituals that only their bodies know. They do not think about enjoying it, but they enjoy it nonetheless. The newts embrace their feelings together, allowing their instincts to become their will. The origin of a newt’s life is here, in the vernal pool, when everything is feeling, and nothing is thinking.