August 2007

Here in Minnesota, the cicadas have begun to sing about the beginning of the end of summer. You hear them more often than you see them, but on my walks lately, I have bumped into the shells that young cicadas leave behind when they graduate to adulthood; and, I have seen, too, the adult cicada, big-eyed and be-winged and somewhat grotesque.

The other day when I noticed one on the sidewalk, I stopped and bent down to study it and discovered that it was beautiful. The wings, in particular, were lovely, transparent and delicately-veined.

They reminded me of stained glass windows.

Squatting there, staring at the insect’s wings, I suddenly remembered being in Paris, twenty years ago and walking up the steps to the upper level of Sainte-Chapelle. Nothing, really can prepare you for what it is like to step onto that upper floor, into that world of windows and light and radiance. It is as if you have wandered into an illuminated manuscript, a jewel box, a fairy tale.

Why would a cicada’s wings bring back the memory of Sainte-Chapelle? Because, I guess, on the most prosaic level, the wings made me think of stained glass windows; and stained glass windows made me remember Sainte-Chapelle.

But there was this, too: crouching on the sun-warmed sidewalk at the tail- end of July, I was pierced again by the same feeling of wonder and beauty and mystery that I felt that day twenty years ago.

I am here.

The world is flooded with light.