The Wisdom of Finless Fish

A shocking discovery and a return to old poetry

A young Michio rests in the foreground, sans pelvic fins. A tiny golden Carl poses behind her. Chins is staring into your soul, making it difficult to see her chin bubbles. Sergeant Pepper hides in the background. Randy is nowhere to be found.

Hello friends,

I recently made the shocking discovery that one of my goldfish is missing a set of fins. It’s actually fairly common for goldfish to be born with birth defects due to all the interbreeding. One of my other fish has something called chin bubbles. It’s pretty self-explanatory; she looks like she has bubbles on her chin. In fact, I call her Chins. I am only creative when I feel like it.

Anyway, a couple of years ago, Chins and her tankmates (Randy and Sergeant Pepper) spawned after I added some new plants. Hundreds of eggs stuck to those inviting leaves, and most were fertilized. Tiny little black streaks inhabited the clear sacks of goo. They wriggled and squirmed, and I adored them all. But goldfish tend to eat their eggs if left unchecked, and when all was said and done, only two babies survived. I named them Michio and Carl.

I loved watching Michio and Carl grow. They started off looking more like see-through tadpoles than goldfish, but gradually they got bigger, developed color, and grew all their fins. At least I thought they grew all their fins. I was always aware that Michio’s abdomen had a distinct curve to it, but it wasn’t until recently that I realized why. I was staring at all five of my fish, trying to figure out what was weird about Michio, when I let out an audible “Oh my god.” Michio had no pelvic fins. It took me two years to notice something right in front of my face.

I was genuinely shocked that it took me so long to notice, especially since I knew something was a little off. I stare at those fish every day. They play together, eat algae off the driftwood, burrow in the sand for hidden treasures. They beg for food like puppies who don’t know when to quit. They calm me down and bring me joy. I love them, yet I missed something so obvious. What else have I missed?

When I was scrolling through my photos to find old pictures of Michio and Carl as babies, I came across a poem I wrote in 2020. It has distinct pandemic vibes, but it also felt reflective of my stunning revelation.

Every day is the same day
now. The universe transforms
around us, but we remain still.

We look up at the stars each night
to see if they've shifted, searching for
a sign that things have changed. We plead
with the light of these long-dead beings
because the living are beyond our grasp.

The stars blink at us in reply,
an interstellar Morse code. But most
of us have forgotten how to translate
the subtleties of celestial speech.

I want to remember how to talk to the stars. I crave the wisdom of finless fish. I want to give myself over to my senses and consume the whole world. I want to see the answers when they offer themselves to me.

Until next time,
Yardena

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WEEKEND POTPOURRI:

• Currently on repeat:

• Arizona’s Petrified National Forest asks visitors not to remove anything from the park, but many people ignore the request. Some, however, send back the bits of fossilized wood and stones they stole with letters of apology. A few are merely guilty, but others get a bit more superstitious.

• Different types of fire-loving fungi help burnt ecosystems recover from the flames.

• A(nother) poem:

THE HORSES

By Ted Hughes

I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost-making stillness,

Not a leaf, not a bird,—
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood

Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness

Till the moorline—blackening dregs of the brightening grey—
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:

Huge in the dense grey—ten together—
Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move,

With draped manes and tilted hind-hooves,
Making no sound.

I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments

Of a grey silent world.


I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge.
The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence.

Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted

Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue,

And the big planets hanging—
I turned

Stumbling in the fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops,

And came to the horses.
                                            There, still they stood,
But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light,

Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them

The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped,

Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys, in the red levelling rays—


In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place

Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.