The Blue Dragonfly

Since moving to Minnesota, I wondered whom I would meet and who might become true companions in this new landscape. A dear friend back east remarked that he’d recently met a woodchuck with a pretty high state of consciousness. Humorous as this was, it made me realize how much the wildlife behind our townhouse had already welcomed us. Bunnies, chipmunks, monarch butterflies, robins and cardinals frequented our backyard.

With this fresh realization, I stepped out to the patio and sank into my favorite hammock chair. I’d barely been resting a moment when a three-inch blue dragonfly zipped past, headed for a nearby bush. I watched him as he darted among the flowers. Then I turned my gaze to enjoy the breeze shimmering through leaves of a nearby tree.

Turning back, I was startled to find the dragonfly barely a foot away, hovering in mid-air just at eye level. Whoa, hello, I said aloud while breathing through my fear of insects that get too close. He rotated his body to face me directly, holding position with translucent, lightening-fast wings. Just don’t land on me, OK? I requested warily. He inched slightly forward—as if knowing exactly how close he could come without upsetting me—and backed up to his original spot. He then pivoted ninety degrees towards the sliding glass doors and peered inside to the dining room. Yes, I said, we’ve moved here. He turned towards me when I spoke, then back to the glass doors, and back again to me, taking this in. He remained suspended quite a while before flying off.

By time’s standards, I don’t know how long this being held himself in mid-air. My experience had entered a characteristic God-moment timelessness. I’d never perceived such presence from an insect, nor felt such clear communication—checking in with me, asking about the new home, and acknowledging me soul to soul. Something else, too. Something deep and important about being here, being welcomed here. Something that encouraged me to go beyond words to reach. An intention. If it had words: go deeper.

The older I get, the more I find communion with all life to be of paramount significance and value. I’m more connected to the planet hurling through space than the noise of our human chatter. Nature’s elegance calls to me in the wind through the prairie grasses, the stillness of a heron at the water’s edge, the dive-bombing of a swallow protecting her nest, or the grace of a Great Dane being walked round the lake at sunset.

Each moment holds the potential revelation of this sacred beauty, a demonstration of the invisible thread being woven through us all.