As I write these thoughts, hundreds (or thousands) of newly hatched 17-year cicadas are flying around in our yard. They seem different than other insect visitors—in a hurry, a bit unsure about their destinations, definitely noisier. Probably more single-minded about what they’re destined to accomplish before it’s too late: discard the exoskeleton, sing, mate/lay eggs and die.
For about two weeks now, we’ve been living with these long-absent visitors. We have only a few weeks until the last of them has completed its noisome work. This may be one of those times when nature insists on our attention about matters we could easily overlook. I could learn from their presence.
It’s possible that cicadas’ flying and singing patterns reflect an instinctual sense that life passes quickly, that their essential tasks need to be accomplished no matter what. What may look like willy-nilly behaviors could actually be cicadas’ intricate responses to sensory cues—sounds and smells—that invite their focused reactions. Their scurrying about might show how a heightened awareness helps them to make necessary changes in their behaviors. During their short adult lives, they eat very little, resting only when the sun sets or precipitation occurs. They keep at their tasks all day long. They’re vulnerable and fragile.
The lives of these amazing creatures seem analogous to some aspects of our human condition. In the larger scope of things, our lives are also short. Discerning our place in history, we can work fiercely towards a legacy that we will probably never see. We can enjoy our short moments in the sun—perhaps after long years of darkness. We can refrain from harming anything or anyone around us.
And all the while, we can sing gloriously sunlit choruses with our fellow creatures!
(To receive these entries when they are posted, go to the upper right-hand corner of the top banner and click on the three dots or parallel lines. Scroll down to the subscription form and enter your information.)
