The Cicadas are Calling 

This summer the cicadas are singing again in my patio! Oh, how I yearned for them to be back. Last May’s "mind-boggling" flea infestation of the whole hill forced me to have it sprayed with chemicals. Meanwhile, bitten all over my body and discovering that I am extremely allergic to the hundreds of fleabites from working in the garden, I get my first anaphylactic shock. My whole body is densely covered in red welts, ferociously itching every minute of the day and night. Unrelenting. Not just the garden, by now house and bedroom cottage are also infested. Non-stop, I am vacuuming, and washing clothes and sheets. Everywhere I am spraying oils of cedar wood, rosemary, and lemon grass diluted in water, and wipe floors and furniture with it. After two sleepless weeks from the intense pain – worse than itching – I catch a high-dose covid infection, first time and brutal. This takes me out for another three weeks, ribs dislocated from excessive violent coughing. As I am quarantined at home for thirteen days, I learn to let the fleas jump on my ancles and naked legs, pick them off with my fingertips and drop them in a cup of water to let them die a slow death of drowning. All day long. Over and over again, I wipe, wash, clean, and clear things out. Much gets thrown away. I even resign myself to the possibility that garden and home could possibly never be rid of these sepcific uninvited visitors, called fleas, the great survivors. I accept my demise.

 

Then six weeks later, suddenly no more flea bites. The old ones continue their healing within a month, my skin slowly renewing itself. After an eternity the house, myself, and the garden are finally free again. For another month, weakness accompanies me. After that my hair keeps falling out in bunches for several more months. As time passes, I learn to accept less hair on my head. Accurately and humorously, I describe my summer to friends as “an expensive, two-month-long, extended luxury vacation.” Surprisingly, my time of painful transformation is laced with humor. Confined, exhausted, weakened, sick, alone, bereft. And the cicadas are gone. Then the sudden spark to have my two big living room rugs professionally washed (Afghan style), and exchange the old Persian one for a big lush Gabbeh, a handwoven wool rug from Afghanistan. Delight after suffering. Ugliness and beauty of life, so close together. The bright, rich red of this geometric carpet opens up my living & teaching space. It offers daily joy and grounding. The pattern of three broad concentric square lines embraces and holds me. Inviting new dimensions, reciting stories about life, mysteries, craftsmanship, patience. Natural plant dyes, secrets, hard work, perseverance. Here leisure, geometry, vibrancy, history, and wisdom are gathering – all woven into one. Heart energy flows freely – illuminating…

Beauty is truth. If nothing is real, if all is fake or declared as “fake,” we must find our truth and calling more than ever. For decades, the seductive power of money, fame, fake beauty, has been steadily strangling American life. Ordinary people participated. Now we can see the political consequences in plain daylight. Not just America, other autocracies and fascist dictatorships, too, have been co-creating massive devastation, war and chaos. Whether Israel, Russia or China, so much ugliness, injustice and inhumanity perpetrated by the systems’ abuses of power. So much violence, brutality, shameless stealing, extortion, in huge proportions. First, we have to recognize the cultural sickness, disorder – call it what it is – then perhaps we can change, heal, and make ourselves worthy of guidance. Of true beauty. We do have a choice. Maybe we are being forced to wake up. Transformations are looming. Much destruction, not all will be repairable. The same old narrative of abusive control and exploitation will have to die – earth and climate are rebelling. The real “new” will emerge eventually, down the unknown road. I don’t feel despair. Periodically however, personal doubt creeps in. Will we, including younger generations, have the clarity, vision, courage, steadfastness? At my age, will I get to see the turning point of the current tide?

Five years ago, when pruning in my front patio, I was able

to photograph one the mysterious invisible musicians.

 

The cicadas are back. They are generous, gifting me consolation, rhythmic pleasure of summer. Their purring song a tender companion, bringing comfort to my evenings and nights.  Calling to me with delicate insights, murmurs from the heart. The world is whole again. It is also broken and ugly. All at once. The past months have been relentlessly bombarding us with shock waves of brutality, daily bursts of cruelty and terror. Ripping the fabric of our society apart. Yet real beauty and love will never disappear, if we practice respect and responsibility. In a few years or decades, the pain and ugliness will be less dominant. Births and deaths, weddings and funerals will have taken place. May we know when to accept reality, perhaps in order to better resist and act when needed. May we know our calling – be useful. May we speak our own languages, our own mind, refusing to give in to the invasions of brainwashing, conformity, robbery, bullying. May we recognize what is, not avert the eye. May we protect each other’s lives and dignity.

The cicadas are calling us to this beautiful and necessary task.

Are you listening? Call and response…

 

Next time more about my abundant quince harvest this year…