On Listening to Bugs.

It's the year of the world's largest cicada brood here in NC (and 15 other states throughout the southeast) and I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that there are literally about one million of these inch-long buggers running around per ACRE! 


I had heard this was the year for them, this 13-year "Great Southern Brood" (or, more scientifically, Brood XIX) but had yet to actually hear them singing. Well, today was the day.


I was walking to my car in the parking lot of my old church in Chapel Hill, NC, where I had just attended a memorial service for a dear friend's mom. The church campus is surrounded by acres and acres of beautiful woods and, most of the time, peaceful serenity with just the songs of birds in the air. 


But there it was. The unmistakable buzz of the cicada. 


I smiled at my ability to recognize the sound without a second thought. Memories from my childhood came flooding back. Growing up in upstate NY, the cicadas came out much later due to the difference in ground temperatures. In fact, it usually wasn't until right around my sister's birthday in mid-August when we would spot our first empty cicada shell stuck to the big oak tree in the back yard.


As I opened the door to the car, though, something made me stop and listen again. The buzz was still there, but another sound caught my attention. 


My mind struggled to identify it. This one was not as easy to decipher as the first, more recognizable, buzz. After a moment, I gave up and hopped in the car. I figured I would come across whatever it was on my trip back home and the mystery would be solved. (I do not like unsolved mysteries.)


The route I took to get home took me through the woods along some really gorgeous back roads. I had the windows down to take in the fresh "country" air when I came to a red light and took note, once again, of that unfamiliar noise. It was almost siren-like; a sort of constant whirring. I must be getting close to it, I thought. And I drove on.


After a mile or so, it was still so prevalent that I thought for sure whatever it was would be just around the next bend in the road. Alas, I came upon no source.


After about another half-mile, cicadas starting hitting my windshield from all directions. It was like driving through the plague of locusts, 21st-century style. I wasn't surprised, really. I was surrounded by very thick, dense woods, a fishing pond or two just off the beaten path. Perfect conditions for these little insects, I'm sure.


I couldn't take the mystery noise anymore. I pulled over at a greenway crossing, turned off the car, and just watched and listened for a while. Cicadas flew past me. One landed in the road just beyond my car (he later met with an unfortunate death by tire.) A family on bicycles crossed the road from the greenway. The dad was listening to his iPod as his wife and kids rode on ahead and I wondered if they were all completely missing this mystery sound.


My detective hat on, I started reviewing the facts. I was almost half-way home at this point and yet the sound was exactly the same as it had been 10 minutes prior in Chapel Hill. No fading. No change in pitch. No Doppler effect as I got closer or further away. Simply...constant.


Then it hit me.


The buzzing we hear so prevalently and so recognizably are the cicadas in the foreground. The ones that are relatively close to wherever we are standing at that moment. And that's the noise most people hear and have come to know as the sound of the cicada.


But the sound I was hearing in the background was so much more than that. It is actually the collective whirring of all those cicadas that are in the distance, covering acre after acre, throughout the surrounding woods. The sound didn't change as I traveled because it wasn't just one small group making that sound. It was the sound of billions of them, singing together, in one voice, spanning two entire counties.


Amazing.


Video doesn't capture it nearly as well as listening to it in person. If you are in the southeastern US right now, I highly recommend you get away from the hustle and bustle of city life and find your own place to listen to them, but you can listen to a few seconds of my video of them here. (And you may have to listen more than once to truly hear what I'm taking about. That's ok.)


So why was it that I never heard them like this before? I mean, I've been listening to cicadas sing since I was a little girl. Why this new sound? Why now?


Perhaps I heard what was familiar and instantly, without realizing it, blocked out whatever else was different in an effort to go on with my day. 


Perhaps it's because I like a good challenge (and, remember, hate an unsolved mystery) and so I was diligent in trying to figure out what in the world this noise was. 


Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I had just come from an atmosphere of retrospection and celebration of someone's amazing life and so I was sensitive to the things around me. 


Or, perhaps it's because I was in the right frame of mind and in a place conducive to listening.


When we listen for God, whether we're listening for an answer to a prayer or listening for his direction on what our purpose is for being here, are we just listening for what's familiar and blocking out the rest? Do we focus only on hearing what we want to hear him to say and then instinctively pick up where we left off and go on with our day? 


Or, are we intentional about putting ourselves in a frame of mind and atmosphere that is conducive to truly listening for him and to him? And are we diligent about actually hearing not only what he's speaking to us loud and clear, but also what he might be whispering from the background?


May you not only listen to what he may be saying to you right now, but may you hear it with an open mind and an open heart regardless of the message.


Then go listen to the bugs.