World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments

by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

How I wish I could fold inward and shut down and shake off predators with one touch. What a skill, what a thrill that could be: Touch me not on the dance floor, don’t you see my wedding ring? Touch me not in the subway; touch me not on the train, on a plane, in a cab or a limo. Touch me not in a funicular going up the side of a mountain, touch me not on the deck of a cruise ship, touch me not in the green room right before I go onstage, touch me not at the bar while I wait for my to-go order, touch me not at a faculty party, touch me not if you are a visiting writer, touch me not at the post office while I’m waiting to send a letter to my grandmother, let me and my children and everyone’s children decide who touches them and who touches them not, touch them not, touch them not.

Those were the days our teachers told us of kids who never came home from school. The days of Bridge to Terabithia, of the fictional girl who went exploring by herself and hit her head and drowned. But not us, we insisted, not us; we’d be too smart to be tricked with candy or the promise of seeing a box full of fluffy puppies.

When I climbed the school bus steps, I imagined myself a narwhal, with one giant snaggletooth—a saber—to knock into anyone who asked if my sister and I were patients there.

But nature has a way of giving us a heads-up to stand back and admire them at a distance or behind glass—an axolotl’s forelegs don’t just end with sweet millennial pink stars; they are claws designed to help the axolotl eat meat. And when it eats—what a wild mess—when it gathers a tangle of bloodworms into its mouth, you will understand how a galaxy first learns to spin in the dark, and how it begins to grow and grow.

You know, it’s very good for a man to have laughing eyes! But at that moment, his eyes weren’t laughing across the restaurant table from me. His serious face told me–through all the electric and fragrant greens, the spray and the shine of the wild bursts of fruit, the messy blood-red days and the stench and the stink too—this finally was a man who’d never flinch, never leave my side when things were messy, or if he was introduced to something new. This was a man who’d be happy when I bloomed.

Bonnet macaques reminded me how good it felt to laugh, to keep laughing in love. To make my love laugh. To let my laughter be from a place of love.

And just like the potoo, who is rewarded for her stillness by having her lunch practically fly right to her mouth—perhaps you could try a little tranquility, find a little tenderness in your quiet. Who knows what feathered gifts await?

There’s a lovely cocktail, perfect for the summer, that I like to make on the rare occasion we find dragon fruit in our local supermarket: slice and remove the skin of one dragon fruit and blend the flesh with one-third of a cup of vodka, a dash of freshly squeezed lime juice, and a quarter cup of coconut milk. Toss in a few ice cubes to make the glass sweat. Garnish with an edge of extra dragon fruit for a tropical touch.

The dragon can be both the wildness we call out when we see this pink egg, and it can also be the balm.

This is the fruit for a time of year when the sun and all its gallop don’t merely feel as though they have nudged us from a static winter, but into a fully alive, roaring season—when everything you touch feels like it could give you a blister and a bit of wild burn.

Why do lady cardinals look so sad and boy cardinals look like they are going to a party?

The phrase “I can feel it in my bones” is synonymous with “I know it to be true.” What if the cassowary’s famous boom is also nature’s way of asking us to take a different kind of notice of them? To not just appreciate and admire cassowaries for their striking looks and deadly feet, but to sense their presence on this earth? Suppose that boom shaking in our body can be a physical reminder that we are all connected—that if the cassowary population decreases, so does the proliferation of fruit trees, and with that, hundreds of animals and insects then become endangered.

Boom, I want to tell the people at Siesta Key, whom I see dumping empty potato chip bags into the shrubs of sea grapes from my blanket on the beach. Boom to the man in the truck in front of me on Highway 6, who tossed a whole empty fast food sack out his window and then, later, a couple of still-lit cigarettes.

Boom, I want to say to the family who left their empty plastic water bottles on a bench at Niagara Falls State Park, only to have two of them blow over and plummet into the f...

Maybe that is the loneliest kind of memory: to be forever altered by an invisible kiss, a reminder of something long gone and crumbled, like that mountain in Lake Superior.

even wings can’t guarantee a smooth flight.

Under any sky in the western hemisphere, some thirty years later, no matter what state I’m in—as long as it’s a clear night and I’m not near any giant patch of skyscrapers—I can find my old friends. What a gift to spot those bright coins in the sky again.

And oh, of course, the wishes! So many made since I was a little girl have come true. Hold a dandelion bloom under your chin, and if your skin reflects the yellow, that means your crush is thinking of you. (In other circles, it just means you love butter.)

I want to talk about not needing to run anymore, about learning to saunter, even dawdle, in the green.

My name is important. I have been mocked for it all my life. I’ll never change it now. I wish more people would care to get tree names right. Teach yourself the difference between red maple and sweet gum. Spicebush and sassafras.

Come sit with me under this water oak. This sugarberry tree. This molave tree. This rainbow eucalyptus. Before I change my mind. Open your mouth and taste the air. Let your mouth be agog, even, and especially, at night. Agape. Agape—which, someone once told me, is the Greek word for the highest, purest form of love.

larkspur leading me to the kindest and truest man I’ve ever known.