Surprise Lilies

As long as I have lived here, surprise lilies have bloomed every summer in two patches, presumably planted by some former owner (as I and my black thumb have planted nothing surviving more than a couple seasons). One patch out in front of the house ringed a small decorative tree which died long ago, leaving them isolated in the middle of an open, grassy yard; the other patch, out back, circled two still-lively oaks. But most years they hardly bloomed, and lately had managed only half a dozen blossoms altogether. I thought their soft pink faces were slowly dying out.

But this summer has been wetter and cooler than most, and when they began to bloom it was clear that this year the surprise lilies were going to live up to their name.

I’ve counted 66 buds and blossoms so far. Out front, the lilies have sprung up in their circle like an overgrown fairy ring. And the oaks out back are wearing a frilly pink skirt above their spreading roots. It’s beautiful, and totally unexpected.

What a lovely late-July surprise.

Insect Affinity?

I’ve never minded bugs but was never exactly fond of them, either. If they were outside minding their own business we got along fine, but indoors they were fair game and I can’t imagine how many have expired under my command. But it seems that lately I’m becoming more and more tolerant of them. This is not true for ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, eye-diving gnats, biting flies, and other annoying pests, which still receive the business ends of fly-swatters, newspapers, bug-zappers, and hands. I mean “regular” old bugs. Beetles and crickets and that sort.

When I recently ran across a millipede in the house, I scooped it up and released it outside instead of squashing it as I probably would have last year. Late one night I discovered a large beetle in the trash can (someone else threw him away, alive) and I simply could not leave him there to suffer under the dirty diapers, plastic wrappers, and empty cans that would inevitably follow. So I grimaced, dug him out of the garbage, and set him on his way outside. Only to find his twin (or mate?) crouching at the edge of my bed. So I took that one out, too, and wished them both well. I’ve shooed black wasps and dirt-dobbers to safety, plucked ants out of danger, scooped moths from sure death, and twice rescued the same large gray bug from an unhealthy curiosity of seats.

I don’t know why. They are just insects. They are one of the most successful breeding groups the Earth has ever seen, without the lure of soft fur and innocent eyes, without the loving minstrations of a human populace. Perhaps I like their blind determination. Maybe I sometimes feel like a bug myself, trying to avoid that great windshield of the unexpected. Maybe it began as a kid when I was careful to place the wooly bears and caterpillars I played with back in safe places after I finished playing. Perhaps it had something to do with a movie where a holy man would not knowingly injure so much as a worm – even when undertaking a construction project – because, he said, all life was important.

Yesterday a large moth landed in my hair. One thing that bothers me a lot is something messing about in my hair. But instead of being annoyed and trying to immediately flip him out, I just let him walk around. I was enjoying the morning coolness on the front porch, in no hurry to really start the day, and I decided to let him take his time as long as he “behaved.” For a while he barely moved and I thought perhaps he’d flown away without my knowing. But then, no, I felt him shift and suddenly he was crawling down the side of my face. Again I had the urge to brush him away but resisted. His feet tickled. His wings were soft. And he meant no harm. So I left him be, perching on my cheek for a few moments before trundling down my neck (he tickled so that I had to laugh just a little). He walked halfway down the front of my shirt then paused, and I was better able to inspect him.

I can’t say he was a beautiful moth, not in the way that some are colorful and patterned to rival butterflies, but he had lovely little bands on his legs and a dark mottling that was itself quite intricate with little dabs of white and orange. He was pretty. And he seemed to be a bit lost, or perhaps was just out exploring a bit in the early morning. At any rate, he wasn’t bothering me so I made no attempt to bother him. He soon fluttered away, having rested up or spotted a cozy-looking tree or finished exploring the unfamiliar geography of the front porch’s latest addition. I bade him well and was glad I hadn’t simply brushed him off. It was an interesting and pleasant experience.

Perhaps I am just beginning to look a bit closer at the world around us, of which insects are an integral part. In the grand picture, I am hardly more than a bug myself, so maybe this is a sort of newfound empathy for small things in a large, confusing, and often hostile world. I don’t know. But I like it. And I think that this search for beauty unexpected is revealing a surprising amount of beauty everywhere … even, perhaps, in me.

Technicolor Life

My favorite color is blue. It has been for many many years. But I find that the older I get, the harder it is to pick just one; all colors are beautiful. I never liked chartreuse until I noticed that sunlight in fresh spring grass carried that color. Gray never seemed exciting until I saw it churning in the sky and ocean after a storm. I was never very fond of pink until those tiny, delicate crocuses bloomed in front of the house, and the rose bush shed great handfuls of bright pink petals on the sidewalk.

Somewhere, everything is beautiful. Maybe not in the same place or at the same time as anything else, but every thing has its own beauty. I may not enjoy a wine-colored shirt, but wine-colored autumn leaves or wine edging on green ivy is a different story.

Years ago a close friend and published poet urged me to write a poem about color (I fancied I had a bit of talent back then). There were rules, of course, to make the process more interesting, including that the entire poem could contain only one basic color and anything mentioned must pertain to it. To really challenge myself (cocky as I was) I chose what I thought was the most boring color in the crayon box (brown) and spent several days refining my little creative attempt. The results were hardly better than mediocre but it changed my perspective completely. In looking for “brown” things worth writing about, I found unexpected beauty everywhere.

I’ve never stopped looking for similar unexpected beauties, and have never stopped finding them.