Fireflies

Every night, this late spring and early summer, we have watched the fireflies. Darkness begins to fall and my husband and I bear witness as the grasses around our house begin to flicker. 

It starts slowly each night - one, then four, then twelve, perhaps. By 10:00 p.m., however, as I feel my way through the dark to the bathroom, I look out the window at a meadow that shimmers with an abundance of light. I stand before the screen and watch and watch, feasting my eyes, my soul, on the beautiful dance. Occasionally, a firefly finds its way to the heights of the tallest pine trees that frame the edge of the meadow, and I feel my heart jump in delight. 

“It is one of the things I most look forward to every day,” my husband says, and I know what he means. Amidst the harshness, this timeless and, frankly, gorgeous unfurling reminds me of all that is still so bright, so beautiful. 

Several months before the fireflies made their annual appearance, I jotted the following in my little notebook: 

The rush of life this spring feels like bright defiance in the face of so much destruction. Movement comes back to the brooks, mosses are revealed, shockingly green as the snow recedes, and, oh!, I feel it within me as well, this thrust towards aliveness as the dog and I stride into the forest. 

And, oh, I did feel it, I have felt it, and I have also felt it become more of a struggle to find the sparks of wonder and the long, deep breaths, both of which ground me unlike nearly anything else. 

Around the time I jotted those words into my little notebook, my son celebrated his first “Big Night”. Last year, he stayed tucked under covers while his sister and I slowly made our way up and down the roadside near our home, carefully shepherding spotted salamanders and the wee-est of frogs in our attempt to provide safe passage as these slight but surprisingly strong beings made their annual journey, pulled by the power of migration, navigating tremendous risk in response to the call of life itself. The magnitude of this exceptional journey has captured my son’s imagination and he awaited his turn to join Big Night this year with an eagerness so tangible it seemed to emanate from his small frame. 

When the time finally came, he swelled with responsibility. He marched alongside me at the edge of the road, our headlamps casting faint illumination through the haze of rain. He held each salamander with such tender care, wetting his mittens before lifting the small, powerful body. He turned away each time a car drove past. “Mama. I don’t want to see anyone get smooshed.”

I have tried not to turn away these past months. I have read the news, looked at the pictures and videos, and turned it all over again and again in my being, trying to understand as our government smooshes people, places, and rights with cruel abandon. While I can find any number of theoretical explanations - greed, corruption, mental illness, abandonment, lack of love and connection - I cannot reach an embodied understanding. Comprehension stops in my mind.

And still, all around me, tenderness is everywhere. It is in my son as he cradles the salamanders. It is in my daughter, who spent the spring with Mary Oliver’s anthology tucked under her arm, words that shimmer vibrating through her being. (Joy is not made to be a crumb, Oliver reminds us.) It is in my children’s teachers, their bodies bent over each new discovery made in days spent in nature as they continue, despite all the horror, to cultivate wonder, kindness, and respect in the young students. It is in the people all around as we take to the streets, people who extend hands to help each other step up on a curb, who stoop to pat dogs, who pause to read signs painstakingly painted by young children.

Please stop. My son brushed these words onto his own sign earlier this spring. He added some flowers for good measure. A nod to the beauty of this world alongside a kind but firm plea. 

As I have processed the news each day, I have noticed my thirst for this beauty grow. I feel called to train my eyes, all of my senses, towards the many expressions of tenderness which suddenly seem like the most audacious acts of resistance. After all, the power of tender care exposes cruelty for what it is. The breathtaking beauty still everywhere throws the ugliness into sharp contrast. 

On a recent night, our children stayed up late and joined us, alongside their cousins, to stand amidst the fireflies as they engaged in their luminous dance. I watched the bursts of light surround us and I also watched my children. Their bare arms extended, their eyes grew enormous as flies landed and continued to cast light while perched on their skin. I saw their wonder: wonder at what it must be like to fly and to light up the night. 

Wonder. I cannot lose it. We cannot lose it. When we wonder, we open ourselves to the world around us. With the soft energy of tenderness, with the fierce energy of the type of love that builds and builds when we wonder, we must stay open.

Some days, the pain of it takes my breath away. But then I reach out, sending my own beam of light: “I’m here, still paying attention, still feeling it all. Where are you?” And dear ones respond and, together, we beat against the darkness, blinking, gathering, building together: something beautiful, something awe-inspiring, something full of light.