“Paying attention. This is our endless and proper work.” — Mary Oliver
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It’s the last week of May on the Illinois tallgrass prairie.
In my home prairie planting, the recent thunderstorms and downpours cause the wildflowers and grasses to grow-grow-grow—seemingly inches overnight.
Spring wildflowers continue their transformation from bloom to seed.
Native sedges, wildflowers, and prairie grasses sulk in pots on the porch. I purchased them at a native plant sale a few weeks ago, but failed to get them planted. My mantra for this week: Get them in the ground! The spring rains will help them establish. But not if they are sitting next to the planting bed, instead of in it.
But there is so much to see right now! So much going on in the garden. So much to observe. So much life and color and pizzazz as the butterflies show up and the insects hum and you exclaim over that plant you thought you lost that is growing in a different spot and is just fine after all, and, yes, that old faithful plant that’s gone missing and that bonus plant you didn’t buy that hitchhiked in with the prairie smoke and turned up as a surprise. Whew! Who has time to plant anything?
It’s a glorious time to be alive in the world.
And what an amazing spring it is! Here in the Chicago Region, we are at the beginning of an epic cicada emergence; historic in that some areas will have two broods of cicadas—Brood XIII and Brood XIX (13-year and 17-year). This hasn’t happened for more than 220 years.
The noise during the daylight hours is deafening. How do you characterize cicada song?
A chatter. A glissando. A white noise. Chant. A shrill. Like chorus frogs. The sound of an automotive fan belt slipping. Percussion shakers. A hum. A delight! A nightmare. A love song.
When the chorus stops—usually right around dinner time—I always check the temperature. They seem to slow down or stop when it drops below 70 degrees (just an observation, not necessarily a scientific fact). Many sources say they sing from around 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. It’s fascinating that we can become so attuned to their presence after a week.
Listening to them after the rain this weekend reminded me of when the last large periodical cicada emergence took place in the Chicago region. It was a “cicada explosion!” Watching people’s reactions to the cicadas was a tutorial in how many of us experience the natural world. I wrote about it in Chasing Dragonflies: A Natural, Cultural, and Personal History, in a chapter titled “On Paying Attention:”
Having an unplanned agenda is anathema to many. We want to know what to do. And we want to “do it” in a place that is comfortable and doesn’t demand much from us. Insects gave me a window into this disconnect. Several years ago, the Chicago metro area experienced the cyclical advent of the seventeen-year cicadas. Casual visitors to (The Morton) Arboretum were clueless about how to handle the sudden onslaught of insects, a veritable plague of biblical proportions. All the tricks people use to isolate themselves from the more inconvenient aspects of nature were useless.
As I’d be out looking for dragonflies, cars would pull over. Questions, shouted over the shrill ear-splitting drone of the cicadas, came thick and fast. “Where are the cicada-free areas?” Others asked, “Where are the cicada viewing stations?”
The cicadas, of course, didn’t fit into any neatly conceived program or box. They weren’t corralled into a handy viewing station where you could buy a ticket and see them behind a glass window. Cicadas flew everywhere; noisy, inescapable, and…beautiful, if you paid close enough attention. In their own, inimitable, cicada-like way.
There are many things we regret as we get older. What we said or didn’t say. Missed opportunities; Things we said “yes” to. Things we said “no” to. But we’ll never regret paying attention.
The cicadas should be singing through at least mid-June or longer. It’s a once in a life-time opportunity, as the next dual emergence is predicted to be in 2245. Love them or hate them, they are inescapable. Why not embrace the experience? Take a moment, go outside, and listen. No agenda. No plan. Just pay attention. Look. Listen.
Don’t miss this.
******
The above excerpt in italics is from Chasing Dragonflies: A Natural, Cultural, and Personal History (Northwestern University Press, 2020).
*****
Mary Oliver (1935-2019) was an American poet who centered much of her work on the outdoors, seeking to understand “the wonder and the pain of nature” (Los Angeles Times Book Review, as quoted by the Poetry Foundation). If you haven’t read her poetry, you might start with New and Selected Poems Volume 1 which won the National Book Award. It will not disappoint.
*****
Join Cindy for a class or program in June:
Wednesday, June 5, 7-8:30 p.m. — “Bison Tails and Tallgrass Trails.” ONLINE only! Bensenville Public library. Free and open to the public. For registration details, call the library here.
Wednesday, June 12, 7-8 p.m. —“Dragonflies and Damselflies: The Garden’s Frequent Fliers” at Des Plaines Public Library, Des Plaines, IL. (In person) Free and open to the public. For registration details, visit here.
Thursday, June 13, 10-11:30 a.m. —“A Tallgrass Prairie Hike,” Hilltop Gardeners Garden Club, Oswego, IL (offsite, private event).
Thursday, June 13, 6:30-8 p.m.— “Potawatomi Prairie Perspectives” with Gina Roxas, Executive Director of the Trickster Center, and Cindy in conversation. (The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, Prairie Visitor Station– held outdoors, weather permitting). Registration and ticket costs here. (SOLD OUT; call to be put on the waiting list)
More programs and classes at http://www.cindycrosby.com.
Tuesdays in the Tallgrass 
Cicada songs match my tinnitus perfectly.
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Embracing the Emergence HERE!
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Maybe it’s my Master Naturalist training, but I am definitely embracing Brood XIII as much as I can. The emergence is thrilling and fascinating! The singing reminds me of the sound of a weed wacker and I’m not in an area where it’s deafening, just a daily reminder of all of the fantastic bugs that await me when I go out to work on my garden or even just walk around my yard checking on the health of my plants.
Thanks again for this reminder to be present. I’m thankful that I have the opportunity to do that.
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I have to confess, I’m not a big fan of the cicadas, although the sound matches my tinnitus, too! Kind of masks it. However, as one who enjoys paying attention to nature, I find it all so magical! Like watching the rings made by raindrops as they plop into a puddle! I’m trying to learn about all things clouds! I can watch them all day! But nothing else would get done, for sure!!! The gift of paying attention is so very meditative, too!
Thanks for sharing that…it’s good to be reminded of the gift of paying attention! I love Mary Oliver poetry, too!
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