A few days ago, I stood, facing the window, doing my morning qi gong. As my arms flowed into seven steps a gorgeous dragonfly swooped toward me. I just had time to register the striking black striped wings, when a bird plunged after it, plucked it off the window and dashed it to the concrete patio below. Then it neatly severed the wings off the stunned body, and flew up, carrying it’s prize away. So much for the illusion of tranquility in nature.
The following night a line of violent thunderstorms moved swept across Minnesota. Waves of water crashing into the bedroom window panes woke me out of a groggy sleep at 4 am. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was sleep-deprived from a week of waking up early to the voices of my granddaughters - welcome voices, but early nonetheless. Maybe if I just lay still, nature would subside. The wind intensified until the house began to shiver. Huge rumbles of thunder rolled across my head. I felt like I was lying under a roller coaster. Then a huge thunk. The bedroom door opened. A flash of lightning illuminated Hallie, her arms wrapped around herself, whispering: “A tree just fell over in the front yard.” I jerked up. Followed her out into the living room. More lightning flashes. The entire front yard a jungle of tree parts. Huge branches flung from the locust barred the sidewalk, the 45 year-old-ash’s exposed roots made a wall between us the neighbors. Its trunk blocked the street. “At least it didn’t fall on the house,” I said. On the opposite side of the house, the damage looked light. Until I saw the hot tub lid twisted off its metal hinges, peeled back. I was grateful it hadn’t crashed through the window. The maple, my favorite of all the trees, stood lopsided, one of its huge arms twisted off. But it stood. As we circled the house, the storm began to calm, the rain let up. The worst was over.
As I tried to go back to sleep, my thoughts turned toward violence of another kind. Earlier in the week, I had written an editorial about my father and how he made it through World War II alive. His survival hinged on intuitive strokes of luck that had always seemed random to me. A flaw in the structure of his toes caused the Nazi air force to reject him for pilot training ( almost all German pilots died), he narrowly avoided being recruited by the SS, and when his unit lost their first major battle, he survived to be shipped off to the US. Narrow escapes from the forces of violence.
I lay in my safe bed, listening to the rumble of thunder recede, the rain subsiding into a gentle wash, wondering about nature and human nature.
To read the editorial see the link below.
What was left of the dragon fly
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