I am afraid of wasps.
They, along with snakes, are the two creatures that can lead me to reroute my path. I can handle spiders with no problem, a product of my summer as a camp counselor. Bees aren’t too bad; I appreciate their role in the world enough to leave them be. And I’ve finally accepted that mosquitoes just come with the things I love about being outside–lakes, camping, etc.
On the other hand, I love hummingbirds.
From seeing them dart to and from the red feeder to watching them swoop and dance together. I enjoy cardinals and waterfowl, and have a new love for the resplendent quetzal. But hummingbirds are the primary avian I will gladly wait a long time to get a glimpse of.
Especially when I’m visiting family in North Carolina. The backyard is surrounded by trees, making it the perfect place to watch all kinds of birds flit and fly to and fro. They pick up twigs and dog hair for their nests. And the chorus–if the Grammy Awards don’t have a “nature” category, they should! Constant chirps and tweets filling the air–some short and others long, pitches ranging octaves–are just beautiful!
The deck at their house has a hummingbird feeder right in the middle, so no matter where I’m sitting, I’m bound to see or hear one.
It’s also one of my favorite places in the world to write. My creativity soars in an alone-in-a-crowded-room environment like this, where I’m by myself but surrounded by activity. Coffee shops, trains, planes, parks, anywhere there’s a lot going on but I can sit peacefully, observe, and write.
On a recent trip to this deck, I grabbed my journal, wandered outside to find a chair that had seen enough sunlight for the morning dew to dry, and with my cup of coffee I sat down and began to reflect.
My journal is a mirror of my mind–full of prayers, ideas, and more. It can function as a space for creativity or spiritual renewal. It’s a place where I write the heavy stuff and the celebrations. Sometimes I’m penning feelings, sometimes facts. Occasionally it becomes a daily recap or planner of sorts, more like a diary.
I sat; I wrote. I felt the warmth of the sun and the breath of the breeze. And then I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye.
They both were there. A hummingbird and a wasp. One I consider a gift to see; the other one, something that literally deters my plans.
Both welcomed themselves into my sacred space, whether I was inviting them or not.
So I was confronted with a choice. Do I stay or do I leave? Staying would allow me to continue to journal and enjoy this beautiful piece of the world that I just love being in. Staying would bring me more views of the hummingbirds and other flying friends. But it would also mean dwelling in the territory of the wasp–this wasp was here to stay, too. It had started not one, but two nests on the umbrella over the table I was sitting at.
This big red umbrella straddled the width of the table, providing shade and comfort for not only me, but a large portion of the deck. It would soon house two colonies, both a source of reprieve for someone, but not me.
Do I stay? I woke up with a deep desire–maybe even an existential need–to journal today. I needed to write, and I didn’t want to give up the opportunity to do so while on this deck. Soon, my workday would begin. Responsibilities that exist beyond the page would call, and I would have to answer. Staying a little longer, wasp or not, would keep that boundary of “not yet” in place; I could keep journaling and not fall to the demands of the day when it wasn’t time for me to meet them yet.
Do I stay? I had such a clear plan to sit outside and journal today. It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment idea. I had been dreaming of sitting on this deck in this chair under this umbrella for days; or even longer, since the trip was booked. I was looking forward to it; and to the feelings I would have afterward. It feels good for me to write. It feels good for me to sit outside. I like myself better when I’m writing, and some of my most cathartic writing has happened on this deck. Would weeks of anticipation end because of the unwanted presence of a wasp?
I began to wonder if this internal conflict was really about the wasp.
If so, it probably wasn’t really about the hummingbird, either.
Maybe it was about safety. The big red umbrella was designed to provide shade, a respite from the sun’s heat and UV rays. And even with the threat of the wasp, it was still doing what the manufacturers set out for it to do. Its mission was accomplished. If it had suddenly sprung to life, it would have said, “I’m safe. I’m protecting you from the elements I was designed to protect you from.”
I would have answered back, “It no longer feels safe here.”
What else in my life is supposed to be safe–maybe even doing exactly what it is supposed to–and lacks the feeling of safety? The perception of safety doesn’t equal the reality of safety.
Maybe it was about unmet expectations. My previous experience writing at this table, on this deck, under this umbrella was cataclysmic for certain pieces of my life and ministry. Had I built it up as something bigger in my mind than in reality? Was I giving this deck, this table too much power over my productivity or creativity? Could I not just go inside, sit at the kitchen table and write instead?
I’ve dealt a lot with unmet expectations, as I’m sure we all have. The thoughts of “I didn’t think my life would look like this” or “my body would look like this” have all run through our minds at least once. “That’s not what I was promised” is what it sounds like in my mind. When these expectations aren’t met, it’s easy to turn to defense mechanisms that make things worse. To run, to isolate, to ignore. We get angry, avoid, or give up.
Would leaving be giving up?
Maybe it was about desire. It’s easy to feel joy and peace in the presence of a hummingbird. Taking the time to sit and watch, with no other responsibilities, is a sacred act of simplicity–something I look forward to and regularly create space for. Staying would acknowledge that fulfilling my desire was a priority. It would say, “Yes, I do deserve this.”
Now, to be clear, I don’t really struggle with fulfilling my desires. Just the opposite–I’m quite selfish at times and will readily meet my own needs. I take the flight attendants’ instruction to “put your own mask on before helping others” seriously. But I added it to the list here of what the-hummingbird-and-the-wasp could really be about because I know it might be what it’s really about for you, reader friend.
Is there a wasp threatening the joy of a hummingbird in your life? Is there something small–maybe it can cause you harm but it probably won’t–that might show up unexpectedly and derail your day? Do you, like me, have to choose to remain in the presence of this threat to also partake in the joy, productivity, or needs being met?
Maybe sometimes it is okay to leave. Maybe other times it would be better to embrace the discomfort–not ignore the wasp, but know it comes with the territory of the hummingbird. Either of these responses could be the right choice.
Maybe it’s not about the hummingbird or the wasp, but the fact that you have a choice in how you engage with each.
Ultimately, I decided I couldn’t stay in the presence of the wasp. I didn’t feel safe, and as a result, I couldn’t focus on my writing which was the whole reason for being outside anyway. So I moved. Not inside, but to a different chair on the deck. The hummingbirds were still within view. The wasp and I stayed in our separate corners. I was no longer shaded by the umbrella, but I could write.
Maybe that’s what this whole experience is about; not what’s good or bad, not if you stay or leave, but that there’s a whole lot of opportunity in between. What first seems like a black or white choice (staying outside or going inside) quickly becomes gray when you really assess the situation properly (moving to a different chair).
Fear, joy, safety, unmet expectations, desire, choice, compromise, opportunity. The journey we take with the hummingbird and the wasp.