Flashes of Light

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Recently, while walking in the neighborhood with Romulus, my friend and canine companion, we witnessed a glinting blue-green cloud of wondrous needle-like creatures. They darted and dived spectacularly while still, somehow, remaining in formation. Their formation was that of a swarm.

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This magical swarm was a bit different than the gorgeous murmurations we see when birds fly in concert. These groups, despite being comprised of hundreds or even thousands of individual birds, are able to stay together performing spectacular flights and changes of direction. But, while they do this, each bird is flying in the same direction with the other birds in the group.

Such was not the case with the needle-like aerial acrobats called Eastern Pondhawk dragonflies. (I discovered this is the name of the particular type of these magical creatures that Romulus and I observed during our walk.) They flew as a swarm. Yet, within the swarm, they were all flying in different directions! How did they do it?

I don’t know. I’m sure that there are some very matter-of-fact or scientific “explanations” for the phenomenon Romulus and I witnessed. But, none of them will do. No, not for me.

No matter the explanation iterated, there will always be my questions: How did they know how to accomplish such a feat? Why did they decide to perform in such a stupendous way? Why did they move, as a group, in such an enigmatic fashion?

Upon returning home, I remembered that Alfred, Lord Tennyson had written a poem that included a short section about a dragonfly entitled, “The Two Voices.” I decided to take a fresh look at his poem.

Re-reading the poem after many years was like looking into an abyss. I’d forgotten how dark and full of despair this poem is. I’d forgotten that Tennyson wrote the poem while in a state of abject misery. A good friend of his had committed suicide, and Tennyson considered taking his own life, too. While in this bleak place of woe, he wrote the poem articulating two voices he heard: one advocating that he end his life, the other making a case for continuing his earthly life. Thus, with his poem, he enables us to hear those voices as well.

Within this dark dialogue, we stumble upon this fragment about a dragonfly:

Today I saw the dragonfly Come from the wells where he did lie. An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk: from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. He dried his wings; like gauze they grew; Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew...

So, within the abyss of Tennyson’s words, we find this creature of hope and light who emerges from “the wells where he did lie,” and bursts forth in a “living flash of light.” How strange, that such a dazzling movement of light and life should be found in this gloomy poem…

Prior to our walk, and prior to encountering the enormous crowd of dragonflies, I’d been feeling a sense of shrinking, as if being hemmed in from all sides to the point where I - me, I - seemed to be growing smaller. Heavy forces in the air seemed to be pressing upon me from all sides. I don’t know why I felt this.

Perhaps, because I’d been by myself for a few days? Yet, I’m often by myself. I’m comfortable being solitary. It’s when I do some of my better work.

Nevertheless, I see how fortuitous it was for Romulus and I to embark on a stroll outdoors. Encountering those Eastern Pondhawk dragonflies was like showing up for an appointment I was unaware I’d made. They were wondrous! And, immediately thereafter, thinking of Tennyson’s beautiful words regarding the dragonfly I felt inspired.

As you probably know, dragonflies are born in water. Prior to their birth and while still in the water of a pond or lake or stream, they molt several times. When it’s time for them to be born and to emerge from the water, they’re outer shell or as Tennyson called it, their “husk,” is split and they arise with their wings, misty and perfect. The dragonflies we saw truly did have “clear plates of sapphire mail.” They were brilliantly blue and green. In the sunlight, they flickered with sparks of silver and gold as they flitted individually, yet floated, hovering as a group.

In bed that night, as I drifted off, I saw zigzagging darts of light crazily moving in every direction. I think I must have smiled before journeying into that “wild realm of wild reality” called sleep. *

Until next time,

K. M. Anderson

PhD, Metaphysics

PhD, Spiritual Counseling

Whisperia

* From Lord Byron’s poem entitled, “The Dream”

Watercolors, by K. M. Anderson