Please feel for me when I tell you that two weeks ago, I traveled to a western suburb of Chicago (Westmont) where the cicadas were aplenty, and one of them FLEW INTO MY MOUTH. I swear to God. It buzzed its little buzz and then zigged-zagged through the air like a drone on the fritz and then BAM! Into my innocently wide-open, mid-laugh mouth. I sure did interrupt my son’s little league game by screaming my ever-loving head off. One of the other baseball moms scooted over to me and showed me a warning that appeared on her iPhone: Someone is shouting loudly near you.
Oh hell yeah I shouted.
I talked to another woman who lived near the field— she said they were flying into her house from her chimney, even though her flue was closed. “I haven’t been outside since May,” she said. “It’s dis-gust-ing." Lord. I felt so grateful that this pestilence passed by my Chicago neighborhood, perhaps, we joke, because of the crime and pollution. Whatever it was, thank you.
A little league dad mansplained to all of us that this year was remarkable because it was the convergence of two broods: The 13-year and the 17-year cicadas emerged simultaneously for the first time in 221 years. I imagined an Oprah-voice coming over the loudspeaker: “You get a cicada! And YOU get a cicada! And YOU, and YOU, and YOU!”
This is not exactly a note in praise of cicadas, especially not the one that nose-dived into my mouth or the one that flew into my purse and nestled under my package of spearmint gum.
But I admit it’s amusing to talk about how a bug currently making headlines flew into my mouth, and what a nuisance it was. But it was more than that: It was humbling. For the 2.5 hours I sat at the baseball game, I was at their mercy. I couldn’t outsmart them. There were simply too many. I couldn’t control them— they’re psycho, and they fly wherever the hell they want.
As someone who loves control so much that she had to join multiple 12-step programs to learn how to unclench her self-will, it’s absolutely imperative that I stay in touch with how powerless I am. (In my case, over food, other people, and now cicadas.)
What more vivid way to understand my tiny role in the workings of the planet than to be accosted by a flurry of insects obeying their own internal commands?
Of course, I had choices: I could wait in the car, cover myself in the netting some folks put around their trees, and/or keep my mouth shut. I did none of those things.
I am praising Mother Nature because what a goddamn boss. Of course, that’s always true— see COVID-19, wildfires, flooding, volcanoes, warthogs’ 183-day gestation period, etc. But sometimes I sit in my climate-controlled home office, writing words and looking for treasures on eBay like a thoroughly modern woman, and I forget. My daily routines trick me into thinking that I’m the boss (ha, ha, ha, ha HAHAHAHAHAHA), and there’s nothing like a flying menace in my mouth to set the record straight.
So I’m actually bowing down to Mother Nature. And as much as I hate the cicadas in practice, they are legitimately astounding. I can’t help but marvel at the grand design of their strange lifespan. And I praise Mother Nature for granting us over a decade between cicada intervals. That is a mercy.
Oh Christie, I can't even imagine! I'd be gargling with mouthwash for hours!