Last night, my husband and I went out for dinner. As it was a warm summer evening, we took his convertible, a snappy little red thing that he bought himself when he turned 40. (I call it his 'midlife crisis car', but that is another story for another day...)
As we were driving home, it was dark -- country road dark -- No street lights, no passing cars, no light from the moon.
I put my head back on the headrest, closed my eyes, and became mindful of the sounds and scents around me.
As we drove past corn fields, there was the song of the crickets, high pitched and shrill. Even though my eyes were closed, I knew when we passed by a driveway or house because the song temporarily stopped and then resumed again as we moved down the road.
As we went past wooded areas, the scent of the air because sweet and spicy from the evergreens. For a moment, I was transported back to my childhood and summer vacations up north at my uncle's cabin.
Opening my eyes, there were hundreds of fireflies lingering above the corn stalks in the fields. Their yellow flashes were going off both singularly and simultaneously. I wondered if their glowing lights made them an easier target for predators. I remembered when I was a kid, stuffing grass clippings and twigs in a mason jar to try to keep some fireflies as pets. (I guess I was acting as a predator then, so answer to that wondering is 'yes, their glowing lights do make them an easy target.')
Soon summer will be gone and the convertible will be put into the garage until next spring.
That makes it even more important that we stop and savor these last sips of summer while we can.
Thank you, Ruth Ayres, for reminding us to celebrate even the littlest things in life.