The Chance Chatter of Chameleons

Walking the black dog around the perimeter of our property is just about exactly one quarter of a mile. He and I do this walk five or six times a day. It takes 15 or 20 minutes because I let him savor being a black dog in the country. He sniffs the goose poop, the rabbit turds, he digs up rocks and carries them around in his mouth like he has some sort of prize; sometimes tossing them up in the air to himself like he has a ball. He is silly, its good for me. Our walks get me out of the office, out of the house and I see that there is life going on around me. Cars driving down the road, mail trucks, delivery vehicles, people coming and going from their houses. Knowing that people are moving through their lives, keeping their routines provides me a feeling of safety, for whatever reason.

I look forward to our evening walk, the walk that is just as the sun is setting. I treasure it now especially as the days are warming up and springs tendrils are beginning to wrap its delicate wispy threads across the outdoors. The peepers are beginning to sing, the warming of the dirt causes the decay and fresh life to waft a rich earthy scent as I walk with black dog. He and I both pause occasionally and stare at the stars and the moon, I think he is in awe of them as am I. How can they be that brilliant, but we can’t touch them or feel them? The little birds in our yard (I wish I knew what they were) shriek at us as we walk through the grass, they are quite unhappy that we are disturbing them as they are settling down to sleep. Occasionally, we happen upon a sleepy bird that flies up out of the grass in front of us, causing both of our hearts to skip a beat and walk a little faster.

These warm(ish) evenings, the signs and smells of spring, the sparkling stars, the fresh breeze on my face remind me of the evenings long ago when the fireflies lit up the back yard like magical fairy lights. I remember laying on my back underneath the night sky mesmerized by the fireflies; not wanting to catch them lest I be the cause they stopped twinkling. It was magic to my younger self.  I couldn’t imagine a world without these fairy lights. These fireflies that flitted about with their twinkling lights.

My thoughts, my muses, my ideas for writing, twinkle in my mind. They flit around like my fireflies. They light up my nights when I lay awake unable to sleep. These thoughts bounce around on the inside of my brain keeping me awake. I wonder sometimes if anyone can see them twinkle like I do. Sometimes, when I don’t write for a long time, it is almost as if I don’t write because I am afraid if I catch those fireflies, if I let those thoughts be seen, I will be the cause they stop twinkling. Will I be the reason the magic stops? What will my world be like without those lights? I’m afraid if they are captured in a jar, I will see them for the beetles they are instead of the magical fairy lights I want to believe are twinkling.

I think that that time between the day and night is a place where magic happens. Where beetles can be magical fairy lights and thoughts can be released into prose that create an escape. When we look deep into ourselves, we can all find a time, a place, a memory that brings us to a time and place of innocence that we believed anything could happen.

It will be a few months yet until thousands of fireflies light up my back yard. When they do, I am going to walk the black dog around the perimeter. While he is busy doing black dog things I am going to lie on my back and watch the stars and fireflies and hold onto that simpler magical vision of life.

Until that night, I will find magic in words and in the little things around me.