Entry 2: Lifecycles

Cicada on a dogwood, Fresno, Ohio, April 27, 2016. (Lucy Bryan)

A few days ago, I noticed the midday cicada chorus for the first time—a sure sign that summer is here. Cicadas are fascinating creatures. They are born in treetops, where their mothers deposited eggs in the bark of twigs. As newly hatched nymphs, they drop to the ground and burrow into the soil near roots, where they spend the vast majority of their lives feeding on sap. Most cicadas emerge after two to five years underground, but in 2016, I witnessed the emergence of the magicicada—which spends 17 years in the dark. The newly reborn nymphs quickly shed their skins—leaving toffee-colored exoskeletons clinging to plants and trees (as well as porches, houses, and laundry drying racks, I learned from experience). In their new state, they have glassy wings, dark bodies, and beady eyes. The males, hoping to attract females, cluster together in trees, producing a high-pitched, metallic whir. They were so loud that we couldn’t hold conversations outside at their peak. Adult cicadas have one purpose: to mate. They die within a few weeks of emerging, hopefully having initiated the cycle again.

Maybe I am drawn to the lifecycles of cicadas right now because of the ending (or is it a beginning?) that has recently occurred in my own life. Nearly two weeks ago, I weaned my son, who is approaching his third birthday. Ending our twice-daily ritual of nourishment and connection was something I’d hoped he would initiate. But in the end, I was the one who decided it was time for that time in our lives to end. Though we’ve both shed tears, there have been fewer than expected—an affirmation that this new stage of motherhood and boyhood is exactly where we’re supposed to be.