The calendar may say it's still spring, but for me, summer officially arrived last week the moment I saw those small yellow beacons in the night:

Lightning bugs are back.

As I walked with our dog a few nights ago, a half-moon shone overhead while just in front of us a tiny airborne light flashed on and off, on and off. I reached out gently, just as I did countless times as a kid, and let my hand act as landing strip.

The firefly rested on my forefinger, bathing it in sunny yellow. Tiny feet tickled feather-light against my skin. 

My small, bright passenger hitched a ride for only a few steps before it took off again, wings a blur in a golden glow.

Beautiful things do come in small packages.

        ---

For more firefly musings, click here.

        One of my favorite quotes -- and one I often cite when I teach writing -- happens to mention lightning bugs. It comes from Mark Twain:

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter -- it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Well said.

Louie, loyal friend ... and visual aid.

I love words, which certainly comes in handy as a writer.
We use words so much, their original meanings can get lost in their familiarity. A word then becomes simply the sound we make to stand for some object, or idea.
Every now and then a word reveals itself in a surprising way, and reminds me just where it came from.
Case in point:
One recent weekend my husband and I took Louie, our resident canine, to the dog park.
While we sat on a bench by the fence, Louie -- and every other dog there -- made the rounds, sniffing noses (along with tail ends … a ritual that always makes me glad I'm not a dog). Their exuberance and joy reminds me of kids let out for recess.
On that day one small white dog in particular attracted our Lou. He pursued, they circled and sniffed, she barked when she had enough. A few minutes later, he pursued again, they sniffed, she barked. Louie returned again and again to his would-be buddy, tail always wagging, ever hopeful.
"Ah," I said to my English-major husband, pointing toward Lou. "Dogged!" 
The meaning of that word was never quite so clear.

Years ago I had a similar epiphany.
In the '70s, one of my best friends occasionally drove an aquamarine Chevy Impala convertible. On this particular night, we were driving in Ocean City, N.J., and I was in the front passenger seat.
Back in those days, buckling up was not mandatory. Feeling young and happy, I grabbed the top of the frame and pulled myself up to standing. The sea wind smacked my face as my long hair shot straight back.
"Ahh! Wind-shield!" I said, laughing as I sat back down, amazed how I had never really thought about the word in that way before.
A lesson in literal-ity.

As I mom, I have to add: If there are any young drivers or passengers reading this, just take my word for it. 
Stay buckled up. 

If only there were a scratch-and-sniff option on this blog ...

Unless you suffer from seasonal allergies, I highly recommend going outside and taking a deep breath.

If you're lucky, you may be in the vicinity of a lilac, and your nose will ascend to heaven. Those delicate lavender and white blossoms are about to leave us for another year, so gather that glorious scent while ye may.

I'm fortunate to be able to simply walk onto my front porch and inhale, thanks to a lovely lilac I transplanted from my folks' house about 20 years ago.

Mowing our front lawn last week proved less of a chore each time I ducked under those perfumed branches. 

Knowing how fleeting they are makes them that much sweeter. Savor them, because you can only experience lilacs once a year.

Unless …

A couple years ago, I serendipitously discovered a way to double that pleasure. All it took was a trip out west to visit family in Idaho and Washington state (a more than momentary joy).

It was late May, and the lilacs back home were long gone, just a fond olfactory memory. Now, I knew the Northwestern climate was cooler than ours, but never thought about what that would mean in terms of spring flowers.

Until I stepped out of our car in northern Idaho and caught a familiar, heavenly scent: lilac -- again! The bush by my father-in-law's apartment was just beginning to bloom. I felt doubly blessed, given the gift of lilacs squared.

So, if you really love lilacs, you only have to travel 2,500 miles to get a second helping.

'Twas well worth the trip.

Once again, it pays to look down.

Seen in passing …

The invisible made visible, thanks to a passel of cherry blossom petals.

As I walked through my neighborhood this morning, I saw those pink petals playing ring-around-the-rosie in the street. Their game lasted just a few breezy seconds before they all fell down.

The wind doesn't just blow, it swirls.

Pretty in pink

---

As a writer and editor, I strive for accuracy. After I wrote this post, I questioned whether the petals I saw were from a cherry or a crab apple tree (to my eyes they're similar).

I headed out and found the tree in question. Feeling bold, I rang the doorbell of the house where the tree lives. When one of the owners answered the door, I introduced myself, and explained my quest. 

She happily replied that indeed, the tree is a weeping cherry. We chatted for a bit, and she encouraged me to come back when the wisteria is in bloom around their porch.

I could have used the internet to answer my question, but it was so much nicer to meet a fellow human.

Those myriad fine lines will soon be filled with leaves.

Spring is all about potential.

The natural world is fairly bursting with possibilities … for growth, blooming, blossoming change. Winter browns are making room for greens, yellows, pinks and purples. The returning colors warm my heart.

Last week I made a point of giving myself the gift of time outside. I walked to work twice (about 40 minutes each way), and hiked into the woods above our house one afternoon, just to soak it all in. Call it natural therapy.

Brown will soon give way to green.

On my Tuesday walk, which took me through a swath of woods, I looked up and noticed that the trees were still leafless, though tiny buds told me that wouldn't last long. As much as I love leaves, I also have a fondness for the silhouettes of trees in winter. I lingered at the sight of those bare branches reaching up and across the sky.

The next day I explored another patch of woods. I looked up again, this time armed with my camera, and saw so much more than bare branches. An astonishing network of thready, delicate stems arced overhead, each one home to a future leaf, a canopy nothing short of colossal.

Saturday's walk came after the rain, offering me puddles mirroring the world above. I took my time -- and lots of pictures. 

I also turned down the worries noising around in my head and tuned into the song that is spring. Birds peeped, chirped, and sometimes squawked. The sun beamed warmth, while a gentle breeze cooled my face.

        I breathed deep, and gave thanks.

The sky below my feet

An oval puddle painting

We all start small.

Recent encounters with the youngest among us have reminded me of how much we have to learn, to figure out, and … accept as we grow.

Children are miraculous sponges, absorbing, taking the world in -- and storing it all for future reference.

While waiting in line at a department store the other day, I noticed a little girl standing at the counter with her father. As her dad and the cashier went through the everyday motions of a sale, the little one stood transfixed. She observed every part of the transaction intently: handing over the clothes, scanning, swiping, typing, bagging -- done! 

Lesson in the marketplace complete.

That intensity of focus is impressive.

I saw another example of it this week, while walking our dog, Louie, past a neighborhood park where a mom and two little girls were playing. When the toddler of the two spotted Lou, she headed straight for the fence between us. Eyes laser-focused on the dog, she pointed (in a way that suggested the gesture was fairly newly learned), and said quietly, "Woof, woof."

"Ah, you speak his language," I said.

"Yes, she's fluent," her proud mom replied.

Lesson in communication complete.

Alas, in life, some lessons are harder learned.

At the library where I work, we offer several story times, including one for the under-2 set.

Story times are reliably upbeat and positive. One memorable session, however, reminded me of "existential story time," a running joke I share with a friend whose sense of humor also veers to the dark side.

        Think Mr. Rogers with angst.

  After listening to stories and moving to music, one little girl simply could not accept the concept of having to give back the bead-filled plastic egg she'd been given to shake along with the song.

"I want my egg," she said. "Mommy, I want my egg."

She repeated her plea, over and over again. Maternal explanations did not compute.

She began to wail, and her patient mom carried her outside. I could still hear her beyond the door: "I want my egg," her voice ranging from small and plaintive to loud and adamant, trying to find the right tone that would bring back her egg.

  They came back in.

The librarian said, "Ok, everybody. Pick out a book to read with your mommy."

Silence.

"I want my egg."

Sigh. Egg-istential lesson, not quite complete.

My reward for walking after dark:

Low-slung sliver of moon,

Bright smile lingering in the night.