Last evening, the weather was particularly pleasant and the bugs were not out in full force yet when we stepped out into the backyard. It would be nice to bring out some blankets lay down and watch the sky, do nothing. As so we did. The birds had already turned home but some bats were flying around. As dusk started to settle, fireflies came out. It was quiet hour of doing nothing but watching whatever was around us, the soft whooshing of cars passing by the distance. The neighbor's grandkids squealed with joy every once in a while breaking the silence - whatever they were doing, it made them happy. This was a hour about nothing but the mundane flow of an ordinary day.
It reminded me of Virginia Woolf's The Death of the Moth. Set in a day much like any other, she zones in on something and creates and abstracted narrative that transcends that little thing itself - the unremarkable day moth. We all see the same things but what we make of observation is so vastly different. That same hour in nature could result in such different outcomes of expression, communicate what was experienced in voices as diverse as humanity itself. Another person would have seen the flight of the bats up in the sky and the scattered fireflies close to the earth and have a Woolf-like epiphany about life and death. I just went inside too cook us dinner.
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