We are in the midst of a natural phenomenon here in Northern New Jersey, one that is incredibly profound and exciting and terrifying. The rise of the cicadas after their 17 year slumber has brought a buzz throughout our community. Really. The sound echoes everywhere. My husband, the chef, likens it to working in the kitchen all evening and having the hum of the hood droning on in the background. It doesn't really bother him. He doesn't realize it's on until it is finally turned off and then there is a sound to the silence. Only then does he recognize that the hood was enveloping him in sound.
I won't lie, those beady, red-eyed, stain-glass winged chirpies give me the willies. And don't let one land on me or near me or by me or around me, but I am still utterly fascinated. This afternoon, on my hubby's day off, we trekked through the reservation in our town and did a bit of hiking through clouds of cicadas. As we got deeper into the woods, the sound was all enveloping; each individual song rising in unison like the breath, Ohm, in a meditative state. We walked in silence, almost unable to speak or hear one another above the rising chant. We did not see cicadas with every step, were not wading through a sea of carcasses, nor did we swat at swarms of cicadas moving in a black cloud formation like I saw in multiple videos on the internet. We did have to duck down as a few seemed determined to attach to us or fly through the space we were occupying. Didier's red shirt seemed to be a draw. I was sure to stand not quite next to him. I still love it, nature I mean, but I didn't need all that nature all over me too!
The cicadas came out of the ground when it got to a comfortable sixty-two degrees in the soil. The dime-sized holes pocked the ground where they'd made their climb. The short life span allowed for just one life goal and that was to mate. From the looks of it, there needed to be billions of them if the species was going to survive. So many of these ding-dang things were crushed, floating in puddles, getting snacked on by birds and squirrels and probably somebody else out there. The ones that did make it at least out of the ground and out of harm's way were meeting wing to wing and then making the Chinese finger torture love. They would connect and one would be moving forward and the other backwards, like the bug world Fred and Ginger. Truly, the connection when made, which we witnessed many times over, is just stunning. As a metaphor for love, the overlain wings, rhythmic, unified walk, determination, will, these partnerships are amazing.
Walking in the woods with my husband of nearly five years, trying to keep up our connection when the demands of raising children and working and living and expanding and contracting threaten to kick our asses, we rooted for the cicadas to thrive and survive. We got angry, frustrated, and annoyed with the ones that landed in the water and then kept trying to walk through the water. We rescued the ones that were nearly on the edge and felt sad for the ones that had just been trampled underfoot, run down by bikers and joggers carelessly moving on the path. We watched them. We studied them. We felt thankful for the chance to be here. Be here NOW while this incredible phenomenon took place in real time and we were able to live it.
Lily is terrified out of her mind at the sight and sound of the cicadas. After a boy in her grade threw one at her, I figured she'd never come around to seeing the magic. When I told her she'd see them next when she was twenty-three or twenty-four years old, she considered it. She said she does feel like it's special. Just not for her. I get it. There are people who love to be out in it, sleeping in the dark, in a tent, in places they've never been or even in their backyards. Who might revel in the sight of monkeys coming to their door or lizards scurrying across the floor of their home. There are those who offer nuts to the squirrels and let enormous cockroaches crawl on their hands. I confess. I am not one of those. I am afraid, cautious, anxious, hopeful; it's the way I approach everything I love.
I love that the cicadas came out and that I got to be here to see them.
When they go, it'll be like the hood has been turned off in the kitchen. There will still be buzzing and then there will be silence. We will just then realize that the hum is no longer with us and that it stirred and amplified us and then let us go. When I say I love nature this is what I mean. I am genuinely shocked, awed, and humbled and though I may be scared or freaked out of my wits, I welcome the chance to love.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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