Cicada Season

There is no wiser piece of sober wisdom than this:

More will be revealed.

How resonant were those words as I stepped outside this morning and heard the otherworldly humming of the cicadas and saw all around me the remarkable drama of their mating and death. Every 17 years, millions of these giant insects tunnel out of the soil, fly or climb into the trees, summon a mate with their haunting music, lay their eggs in tiny twigs, then fall from the trees and die. Soon after, the cicada hatchlings descend from the twigs and burrow deep into the earth to start the cycle again.

I was thinking about the last time the cicadas appeared, which was the summer of 2004. It feels like a lifetime ago–before my alcoholic drinking, before my recovery, and before I had the self-awareness to know that I was a dry drunk on the way to wrecking everything I loved in my life.

The cicadas terrified me back then as they crawled slowly across my lawn and lurched into the trees. I was horrified by their blood red eyes and the way their corpses piled up on the sidewalks. It would be many years before sobriety taught me to strive for courage, patience and kindness.

In the summer of 2004, I was practicing self-centered fear in all my affairs. It fills me with shame to think of all the times back then when I should have been kinder.

I recall with particular sadness a garden party I attended during that long-ago cicada season with a man, now deceased, whom I will always love dearly. We were a passionate romantic pair engaged in the painful process of unraveling. I remember losing my temper with both the insects, which were flying into the summer hats and plastic cups of the party guests, and my beau, who was wounding my sensitive feelings with his sarcasm. I departed the fete in a huff. Later, my beloved knocked on my door and made an impassioned plea for my forgiveness and for our relationship. Foolishly, I turned him away.

We broke up soon after and in the wake of our split I watched myself evolve from a dry drunk into a real alcoholic. By the time I got sober and began to learn the gentler ways of recovery he was already involved with someone else. Now he is gone.

The returning insects have brought poignant memories today. But also gratitude for the revelations that have come with time and sobriety.

I felt pangs of sadness on my morning stroll. But I was comforted by the surprising patience and empathy with which my heart greeted the cicadas crawling up the crape myrtles to sing their sweet and fleeting mating songs.