There is such a thing as a fly.
You don’t usually get to look at a fly up close. They are so wary, so quick. But today I was out in the woods working, tying flagging on trees to mark the wetland edge. It was cold out. Too cold for insects.
As I reached up to tie a pink-glo vinyl ribbon on a small maple, I spotted a fly. Its hershey kiss-shaped head–I had never noticed before, the hairy greenish shield on its back, the delicately folded wings, its intricate, mechanical legs. The low November sun was gently shining on the side of the tree giving just enough warmth, and the fly was lethargically climbing up the flaking gray bark past patches of pale green lichens.
Maybe this all came about by chance. Maybe it’s all just a grand equation that somehow actualized itself ito existence. But if it is, then what is this fly? If it is, then why is this fly wonderful? If its all just chance or equations, the fly is not wonderful. It is nothing.
But it is not nothing. The fly is a fly, and it is wonderful and beautiful. There is such a thing as beauty.
