Firefly Soul

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My first encounter with a lightning bug was a glow splotch on my car windshield. I paid little mind--I thought maybe random bug guts were reflecting the moon or another car's headlights. Fireflies are insects in Disney movies that are big enough to fly mice through the Australian back-country. Fireflies are bugs that Adam Young used to conjure a perfect electronic Owl City melody. Fireflies are only imagined.
That's what I thought until they surrounded me like infant stars, flickering nature's giggles across the breeze. I wanted to dance in them. I did dance in them. They bobbed over whispering fields like helium wishes. I mentally blew every one of them heavenward.

My mental list of favorite insects shuddered and "butterflies" sank to second place. Lightning bugs crawled innocently to position 1. I plucked one from a blade of grass and allowed it to crawl across my skin, illuminating freckles with every pulse of yellow-green light. I imagined hundreds of them landing on my outstretched arms and upturned face. I don't think I would ever stop laughing.

Some things in life take your soul on a Ferris wheel, around and around in elated rapture. It's been several weeks now and my soul is still riding with hands thrown in the air and giggles taking flight.

Bliss.

Dear Professor

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What is it like, standing invisible in front of a class? Does it hurt your heart knowing every student looks through you with mental ear-plugs? Do you feel like your life is dripping through your clenched fingers like suffocating raindrops?

I would.

Put those drops in a glass. Don't waste them, you only have so many. You're watering the linoleum with your monotony. I would be watering it with tears--tears for time ticking by without kissing a single person's heart. Don't you miss it? Don't you miss that time? It could have been so meaningful. It could have changed lives, thoughts, hearts... Instead, it's tossed to the breeze like wish-less dandelion fluff. Students work on homework or plan their schedules while you speak. Can we call it 'speaking'? It comes off as a mechanical drone, memorized and spewed out every other semester all for a paycheck. I want to cry for you.

Is this the future you wanted? When you were out playing soldier-hero with your neighborhood best friend, did you aspire to be a distant impersonal lecturer? No. No one would desire to be dull and ignored. You had passion at one point. You dug it up with the earthworms before casting your line into your future. Where did it go? You dropped it on the way to the fishing hole. Now you're here with the world's tackle-box and a cemented lawn chair.

But your pond is drying up and you're catching nothing. You need to go back. You need to crawl on your hands and knees until you find that muddy, trodden passion. It's still there. It's crying, waiting to be held and attached to your fishing hook. You'll catch something. I promise. So why aren't you moving? Why aren't you seeing? Why aren't you living?

Oh professor. Pause for a moment. We won't mind the silence...it's much the same as your lecturing. But in this pause, answer my question--internally, externally, written with chalk...I don't care, but answer it. Your soul needs you to. Your passion needs you to. Your dry dwindling future begs you to. Answer it or at least take a precious second to think it.

Are you who you want to be?

Adventures of a Gender-Confused Dare-Turtle

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"I've always wanted a turtle."

I told this to my man and, next thing I knew, a teeny box turtle had "accidentally" crawled into a bucket for me.
Missouri is a land of crunched summer turtles that dare to play chicken with shiny four-wheeled giants-of-death. I saved one once--jumped out of my car and placed the four-legged rock on the grass. My friend, Seth, had the courtesy of informing me that, "...in the time it took you to save that one turtle, five others got killed and crunched somewhere else."
Thanks, Seth.

Due to confusion (or lack of interest) in my new turtle's gender, Daylen and I christened it "Heeshee" (didn't know if it was a "he" or a "she"). Heeshee sat in the bucket like a grouchy paperweight, munching the grape tomatoes when no one was looking. After lugging a fishtank from the attic, we brought Heeshee to his new home. He spent the first night crawling toward the tank's glass corners and just staring out at my messy living room.

I pulled out an old toothbrush and scrubbed Heeshee squeaky-clean. His grouchiness washed down the drain with the greenish-brown soapsuds and he squirmed in my hand, examining the pearly bathroom setting. Only the sharp, nagging word "salmonella" stopped me from planting a kiss on his curious head.




Determined to be a faithful pet-keeper, I looked up all there is to know about caring for box turtles. Rule number 1, don't keep it in a tank.
Drat.
I moved him up to my second-story porch garden. His minuscule stature could never scale to the surrounding walls of the planter, so I plopped him among the lily and daisy jungle. One turtle-sized pool, a pile of turle-ish food, and five decorative rocks later, I bid Heeshee goodnight. I drifted to sleep, free of guilt and dreaming of Heeshee skipping and tromping through his new homelike environment.

Morning found him wandering among the greens. Early afternoon found him floating sleepily in his pool. Late afternoon didn't find him.
I returned from class and my motherly turtle-instinct screeched in alarm. I searched the planter like a seasoned Safarimonger (it should be a word), scoured the porch with Sherlock Holmes scrutiny, and yet...no Heeshee. Only one conclusion existed: He climbed out of the 2-foot high planter, leaped off the second-story porch, and frolicked away.

Heeshee, the mountain-climbing, free-falling, dare-turtle.

A couple hours later, every afternoon gardener and neighborhood child knew Heeshee was missing. They presented me with toads, snakes, a monstrous box-turtle (I wondered if he'd eaten Heeshee), and one kid kindly suggested that, "Maybe Heeshee got picked up by a hawk."
Nice kid.
After a good hour of searching, I resorted to just hoping that Heeshee stays safe and enjoys his independence. The apartment porch is much more lonely and sniffly (especially the planter). I am, too.

Heeshee...you were a good and brave turtle. May your daring feats inspire and encourage the rest of the car-crunched turtle world.