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| Frantisek Kupka, Les nenuphars (commencement de la vie), colored aquatint on paper, 1900, Collection Centre Pompidou, Paris. |
Californians love to talk about the weather. While living in
California, each time I ventured out the door I thought, “What a great day to be alive!” There, the air is warm and light. Your body cuts through it seamlessly. Your
being becomes lighter as the air almost lifts you up. Californians love to talk
about the weather.
Californians have a naïve way about them. We continually
talk about everyday things as if they were amazing, one-of-a-kind experiences.
This can be obnoxious to serious people, but I find it quite pleasant. Do not
underestimate our innocent exterior. Innocence often opens doors to change and
is at all times a useful way to start a conversation.
Any time a Californian sees a hummingbird, and this is
nearly a daily experience, he or she will immediately point in the direction of
the small creature and exclaim in excitement, “Look! A hummingbird!” In
response, all those present will turn their heads to the spot indicated by the
pointed finger and seek the marvelous object with eager eyes. More often than
not, the bird will flit away before anyone else can see it. Occasionally it
will linger and allow the curious observer to discern between red and green
iridescent feathers. Californians see these birds every day and yet their presence
will forever be greeted with the enthusiasm of a child discovering the moon.
The arrival and departure of the hummingbird is accompanied
by a thrumming sound. Thrrrrrrr… as if someone got stuck rolling their tongue
in a Spanish ‘r’ sound. I thought of this sound in the doctor’s office when I
was pregnant with my daughter. Because
I’d had trouble with previous pregnancies and wasn’t looking forward to being
disappointed again, I took my time to go get the ultra sound that allowed the
doctor to pronounce a conception date. I was over two months pregnant by the
time my appointment came around. As the technician swung the ultra-sound sensor
over my lower abdomen, a little bean appeared on a screen next to me. I was
charmed by its presence without attaching any sort of deeper feeling to it. But
then my ears detected a low burrrr-ing, the hummingbird thrum slowed down
slightly. I told the technician that I thought that weird nois meant her machine might be broken and she said to me, “C’est le battement du coeur, Madame.” The thrumming of the hummingbird is like the sound
of new life.
The only other experience I’ve found comparable to that of
observing a hummingbird is watching fireflies. I have only seen fireflies
twice. The first time was in Oklahoma at the end of a hot and humid day. The
atmosphere had been dripping wet so that you couldn’t tell the difference
between being in and out of the swimming pool. In those conditions the sight of
the fireflies hovering over the lawn at nightfall brought about a feeling of
relief. The fireflies seemed to say, “At least you have us, even if the weather
is nearly unbearable!”
The second time I saw fireflies I was walking down the mall
in Washington, D.C. at dusk. I was fourteen years old. It was early summer,
maybe even the first days of June. Sunlight was fading. Faint twinkling began
to fill the darkening air. The twinkling became increasingly brilliant and dense
until eventually I had the impression that the stars had come down from the sky
and settled all around me. Fifteen years later, the memory of it still leaves
me awestruck.
I wonder what the people of Washington say when they see
fireflies. Do they “ooh!” and “ah!” in wonder the way a Californian would?
Despite the risk of sounding relatively naïve, I hope they do.
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