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

by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

The secret in talking to birds is in the steadiness of each limb as you make your way into their territory, in the deliberateness of each movement and bend of tree branch and grass blade. 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?

When daily news seems to bring forth another fresh grief—more children killed, the Amazon rainforest ablaze for weeks—I think of this orange, its sweetness and the smiles it brings to so many families. For the daily tragedies, I try to do what I can to help—donate money, gather

bathroom supplies—but my heart longs for a place of tenderness. Where people offer each other, offer strangers, a fresh globe of fruit. Sure thing, sweetheart, I tell him as I hoist a melon on the counter. Let’s go back to Foda soon. We are all overdue for a visit.

QUESTIONS WHILE SEARCHING FOR BIRDS WITH MY HALF-WHITE SONS, AGED SIX AND NINE, NATIONAL AUDUBON BIRD COUNT DAY, OXFORD, MS If we are going to look for birds all day, is anyone going to be looking for us if we get lost? I thought you said God has his eye on every sparrow, so why are we counting if He already knows? Is there a bathroom nearby? Why won’t you let me bring my telescope? There might be birds flying way, way up there, but we can’t see them and then we’ll mess up The Count. Why do lady cardinals look so sad and boy cardinals look like they are going to a party?

What a wonder to have sons who unabashedly love to dance! Who aren’t afraid to sway and shake to music whenever they encounter it—and dance to music no one else hears but them.

I could feel a shift in my body the first day we opened the door and stepped foot in Oxford, like tiny magnets in me lined up and snapped to attention because I was finally where I needed to be. I could feel it in my bones, my homing instinct pulled me so strongly to this land, a new and exciting landscape for my family to explore—

It is this way with wonder: it takes a bit of patience, and it takes putting yourself in the right place at the right time. It requires that we be curious enough to forgo

our small distractions in order to find the world.

What is lost when you grow up not knowing the names for different varieties of fireflies? When you don’t have these words ready to pop on your tongue: Shadow Ghost, Sidewinder, the Florida Sprite, Mr. Mac, Little Gray, Murky Flash-train, the Texas Tinies, the Single Snappy, the Treetop Flashers, a July Comet, the

Tropic Traveler, Christmas Lights, a Slow Blue, a Tiny Lucy, the mischievous Marsh Imp, the Sneaky Elves, and—in a tie for my personal favorite—the Heebie Jeebies and the Wiggle Dancer?

Listen: Boom. Can you hear that? The cassowary is still trying to tell us something. Boom. Did you see that? A single firefly is, too. Such a tiny light, for such a considerable task. Its luminescence could very well be the spark that reminds us to make a most necessary turn—a shift and a swing and a switch—toward cherishing this magnificent and wondrous planet. Boom. Boom. You might think of a heartbeat—your own. A child’s. Someone else’s. Or some thing’s heart. And in that slowdown, you might think it’s a kind of love. And you’d be right.