The Rhythms of Life

Well, I guess we all survived Cicadapocalypse 2024.

I know people who had swarms in their yards. Luckily, we did not. Good thing. Because once our granddaughters caught their first glimpse of the HUGE BUGS on our patio, we weren’t sure they’d step outside again for the rest of the summer.

They did adjust, though, since most of the cicadas we saw were not very threatening—actually either already dead or dying. I was able to point out that the sun turned their delicate wings into beautiful little rainbows (rainbows being second only to unicorns in terms of their adoration). We also admired their big, red eyes that were actually pretty and kind of cool. So the girls decided they could—cautiously—co-exist.

Though we didn’t see many, we certainly heard the flying-saucer-landing-on-earth sound all around us. I’ve experienced more than one emergence of these periodical cicadas, but I’d forgotten about that constant, all-day noise.

So different from the rhythmic buzz of annual cicadas that begins at twilight where I grew up in southern Indiana. That sound instantly evokes the feeling of hot, humid summer nights, so much so that some people even call it the “Song of the South.”

Harry and I spent last week at our little cottage in the woods south of Bloomington. It has a screened porch where we often sit in the evening, just breathing in the sweet summer air and listening to the chorus of birds and insects, as the sun sinks behind the tree line.

One night as we sat there, I was struck by the rhythmic sound of the cicadas. It starts quietly, gradually builds, and then stops abruptly, only to begin again. (If you’ve heard it, I invite you to close your eyes for a moment, and remember.)

Anyway, this got me thinking about the rhythms of God’s created world, its constant rising and falling.

The drone of insects. Wind in the trees that you first hear softly, far off, and then gradually much more loudly, until it stirs the leaves above your head. The sound of the tides, rolling in, building, and rolling back out, again and again.

Not only the sounds of Nature. Its very life. Rivers and creeks rise and fall. Plants grow towards the sun, and then, at their appointed time, fall back into the earth where they were born. That same sun that sustains our planet’s life, rising in the morning and setting in the evening.

All of God’s Creation lives in this rhythm of rising and falling—including us, humans created in God’s very image.

Think about your breath. One of the things meditation has taught me is consciousness of my breathing, in and out. Breath is one of the most universally shared parts of life! Every human, every animal, breathes in (the Breath of Life in Genesis) and breathes out. The air we breathe out feeds carbon dioxide to the trees the whole world over. The trees, in return, deliver the oxygen we need to breathe, to live.

Life—our very lives—are part of this great rising and falling. We are born. We grow in strength, in stature, in wisdom, in spirit. We become older, and we experience the waning of life within us.

We need only think of our brother Jesus to understand that this is the cycle of Life. He was born. He grew in stature, in wisdom, in knowledge of God. For three years, he taught everything that humanity needs to know about being children of the living, loving God.

On the cross, he experienced the descent into a physical death.

But a death that led to the ultimate ascension—the rising to eternal Life.

May we be ever conscious of—ever thankful for—our place in this great, rhythmic pattern of God’s Creation.

Blessings,

Lou Ann