why the cicada?

I have not done much advertising of this blog among family and friends, so if you stumble here unawares, welcome and thanks for reading! I am starting this blog to get back into the habit of writing. In high school and college I loved to write, but since exiting academia, I have largely been consumed with the other things of life, namely taking care of a baby and husband, which takes more time than I could ever have imagined. Here I hope to use a little of my own time to reflect on my world, conjure up bits from my past, and possibly do some writing exercises to make my brain work harder than it has become accustomed to.

But why the cicada? In Colorado, there is no cicada song. Actually, there are few insects here at all. I grew up in the Denver suburbs, but I remember hearing insect songs for the first time when I visited my friend Amy in Texas as a child. Since then, I started listening for nighttime insect orchestras every time I drove to see my grandparents in Kansas in the summer. In college I camped in Baton Rouge with some friends and could hardly sleep for racket. Before moving back to Denver my husband and I lived in Saint Louis, Missouri. In the early evening of summer I loved to sit on the front porch and listen to the cicadas sing. And this is the why of the cicada song: it makes me feel soulfull. Complete. Sad in a satisfied sort of way. It brings back bits and pieces of memories that I might otherwise never remember. It is the song of the Midwest, the South...so exotic and mysterious to one who grew up without it. It is hot, humid summer days that fade into hot, humid summer nights.

Summer is coming. It is only February, but yesterday we had the window open in our apartment. The noise of the street drifted in along with that springtime breeze that subtly announces the end of winter. And I started feeling the way I do every spring: sad, yet filled to overflowing; longing, yet full of hope. Denver summers are hot, but not humid. And Denver summers are silent at night. In August we move back to Saint Louis, where the cicadas sing.

Following are a few excerpts from essays I wrote in the past regarding cicadas:
Warm, humid Midwestern summer nights are different. I think it’s the cicadas—some unquestionable, invisible and powerful force, their melody rising and falling in unity, each bug sings with one voice. Do they sing each sweet melody in romance to each other, or does the insect army compete, each voice fighting its way above the rest? The cicadas are less obtrusive than the armored brown-shelled beetles that dive bomb me on the porch in Kansas. They are more pleasant than the dirty black cockroaches that squeeze their way into my basement. It is the cicadas, the damp oppressive air, the warm nights that make me restless. These nights recall the huge trees, dripping with moss and filled to overflowing with insects, of Baton Rouge. They recall the huge spiders, the sleeplessness in the dark unbearable heat, the stickiness of skin that I despaired would never dry, the drowsiness of long, hot days. Saint Louis is not the same. The cicadas are the same, but I can never forget the swamps of Louisiana. 7/9/06

At the campsite [in Baton Rouge], a strange old Indian man led us to our space, walking in front of the van while we followed slowly behind. While that was strange and slightly comical, at the campsite we spilled out of the van to find enormous, moss covered trees overhead, filled with unimaginable insects that filled the night sky with incredible noises. We set up our tent, Amy and I tried to go on a short run, and we finally took showers and settled down to go to sleep. Louisiana was hotter than I ever could have imagined. Shortly after our showers we were once again covered with sweat and the incredible heat was unbearable for sleeping. Dash and Amy slept in the back of the van while I again slept in the tent with Kevin and James. Actually, slept is the wrong word, for we did very little sleeping. The three of us laughed and joked into the night and then when we got quiet, I stayed awake for long hours, conscious of the heat and listening to the beautiful sounds of the insects in the trees. 4/04