The Dragonfly
The dragonflies buzzed across a bright blue sky. Children’s laughter surrounded me. My husband and our friend chatted about the bears walking on the other side of a habitat’s barrier.
I was focused on the dragonflies with a phone in my hand, camera open, aiming to capture one of them flying. I could feel myself biting the right corner of my lower lip as I ignored the morning excitement of people around me at Oakland Zoo.
I clicked the button several times. Then, I eagerly brought the screen to my face to see what I’d caught on camera. And there it was. A single dragonfly in the top corner of the frame, against the beautiful sky. I smiled – not in triumph – but in happiness.
And then my stomach tightened with panic. My girls (two puppies) are gone. Our family of four reduced to a family of two. How can I be smiling right now? Guilt flooded me. I looked around anxiously as if everyone could see what I’d done. How I’d dared to have a good time during this painful experience. I glanced over at my husband and our friend. Did they see me be happy?
They didn’t. Everyone was focused on the bears enjoying the sun and eating their food.
No one was looking at me. No one was judging me. No one was upset.
Except for me.
Standing there, holding Grief in one hand and Happiness in the other.
I looked at my husband, caught his eye, and smiled with reassurance that I lacked. He smiled back before continuing his chat with our friend. I turned and forced myself to walk slowly to the next habitat. Because instead I wanted to run. I wanted to get away from this moment. I wanted to outrun this guilt. Grief. And, yes happiness, too.
I found a secluded corner and sat on a bench. Breathing slowly. Trying to fill myself with a void where my feelings had been.
But my eyes betrayed me. They looked up. Mesmerized by the flying dragonflies in the sun. And I let them be my escape from the present discomfort.
I dove into my memories. My past.
Odessa, Ukraine.
Former Soviet Union.
Childhood.
Summers.
Spent on the Black Sea.
Every August brought a sea of dragonflies. I loved watching them then, too.
They announced the end of summer and the beginning of a new school year. Our return to the city. Another year ahead.
I would dread the end of endless summer days. And yet, I welcomed the new year and the adventures it might bring.
“They don’t live long,” my dad once told me. “They live most of August, and once the cold comes with September, they will die.”
I nodded in understanding and returned to watching the dragonflies.
Back then it felt totally normal to know that something terrible was going to happen and be able to stay in and enjoy the present without worrying about the future.
Maybe it had to do with growing up in the former Soviet Union.
Where things, such as food or medicine, weren’t always available when we wanted or needed them.
Where bread was available for purchase only once a week.
Where a taste of bananas was as rare as once or twice a year, if you were lucky enough to get them from traveling sailors at the port.
Where a certain level of discomfort existed constantly in day-to-day life.
Where people in charge took advantage of the public and there was nothing to do about it, but to continue on living.
Where we could watch and read the stories from the West, filled with daily plentifulness of food, medicine and happy endings, and enjoy them while knowing they would never apply to us.
Somehow, people made space for happiness while experiencing unfairness, injustice, discomfort and the knowledge that happy endings were not meant for them.
And now, almost forty years later, in another August, I was still looking at dragonflies. Only this time – surrounded by plentifulness and happy endings – I found myself unable to let go of my grief to experience joy.
Maybe I don’t have to let go of my grief. Maybe simply making space for joy, right beside my grief, should be enough.
I breathed in deeply – as if tasting the saltiness of the Black Sea from my past – and leaned back on the bench.
And I watched the dragonflies above.
In the sun.
In my grief.
And in my joy.
Yours, Artur
ps. I'm returning to my regular programming next week - for now.
artur@arturakkerman.com
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