I’ve been thinking a lot about the cicadas lately. You know, brood X that is currently singing and eating its way through part of the United States? I have half a mind to get into the car and drive so I can hear their thrumming song and see their gnarled bodies. To be honest, I am jealous of the cicada-drenched lands of 15 states.
As a child, I remember taking exoskeletons off the trees and hanging them on my brother’s clothing. I remember marveling at the open shell of the bug, which had just climbed out of its brittle outer clothing into a new life.
Apparently, cicadas can spend decades of their lives underground. According to the internet, broods can spend anywhere from 2 to 17 years tunneling, feeding, and otherwise making a life under the loamy soil we tread above.
Isn’t this fascinating?
Of course, a metaphor emerges (like the brood!) from this information. What in my life is underground, what is tunneling and feeding and hiding, and - when will it emerge? Is it a love, a revelation, a form of self love? Is there trauma I have yet to uncover? Is there a life I have yet to live, a dream I have not found, a version of myself I am meant to be? Where and when will it emerge, with the singing and the eating and the… peeing?
What wisdom will hang from leaves and branches and leave its exoskeleton for me to discover? What tender fruit will it consume? What sacrifice will it require? Who will I be then? And, what will I be after it has gone?