Fireflies

As soon as the deadbolt clicked shut on the door of my Des Moines apartment, my knees gave out and I became nothing more than a pile of person in the doorway. I had reached the point where I couldn't escape my misery anymore, and I had no choice but to finally allow the weight of it all to wash over me: the five-month-old email still sitting in my inbox that seemed to contain all of my inadequacies while stealing all of my dreams, the fact that I was losing one my most important friendships because of my own lack of patience and empathy, the loss of my beloved childhood dog, and now, it seemed as though I was about to be torn from my last vestige of some form of "home." Hours were spent on that floor until tear ducts ran dry, and even then I couldn't move. Everything was far too heavy. I wasn't ready to be around people, but I also knew I shouldn't be alone. And so.... I prayed. It seemed almost silly at the time--I hadn't been to church in months and still wasn't entirely solid on how I should interact with the divine. But I had to do something, and in my crumpled position, this seemed as good an option as any. I told God how heavy everything felt, how it was starting to become too much, how I wasn't sure what to do next. I began to think about the darkness that had taken over my thoughts and behaviors. I begged God for some light--it needn't be sunlight or a lamp or even a flashlight... maybe just a firefly?

Hours later, I peeled myself off the floor, my final request of God still ringing in my ears--a firefly. I had plans to go to a concert with a friend that night, and I never bail on friends, so I cleaned myself up and took a running leap into the world. For reasons I don't remember, we were late. Actually, we missed the entire portion of the concert we had intended to see. Still, we paid our $20, got our wristbands and went to sit on the grass. Natasha Bedingfield got about four songs out before it started to rain. And even as the entire crew tried to corral her band off stage, she managed to sing an acoustic version of one of her most popular songs. We all laughed at the irony of her words, "feel the rain on your skin." My friend and I had taken solace under a nearby tree, and just as the piece ended, right before it really started to pour, I looked over my friend's shoulder and saw it. A firefly.

Almost a year later, and I can't believe how much (and in many ways, how little) of this still rings true. Yes, I have matured and grown in many ways this year, but I also have retreated into myself to a depth that I have never reached before, and I'm not sure how to get out. It's as though I have disengaged from my own life. Every single day I am haunted by the thought of the rejection email from last January and am reminded of my unworthiness of a life I once wanted. Then there's the thick loneliness that surrounds me all the time. Invitations that I should have accepted hang over my head, but I can't bring myself to feel the regret that should go along with those memories. I wanted to go, I wanted to make new friends, but it's as though I'm living behind my eyes these days and very little will draw me out.

But inside of me, there is still hope. There has to be--how else would I have unwittingly programmed the piece "Firefly" for my seventh graders to perform the week after my select eighth grade girls sing "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield? Initially, realizing that is when I really began to see it. The real fireflies of my life this year: 200 adolescent girls who tell me every day how beautiful and amazing they think I am; a colleague turned mentor; two cats who light up my otherwise lonely apartment; church members of a small, but vibrant, congregation; friends and family who remind me in many ways that even though they are not here with me, I am still not alone. Individually, a firefly may be small, but put that many of them together and they sure can produce a whole lot of light. And who knows? Maybe just around the corner there will be a flashlight. And hopefully, eventually... some sun.