Every summer, there comes a day when I notice the grasshoppers again, with their buzzing and whirring in the tall grasses and weeds along the fence lines. Together with the cicadas droning in the afternoons, it has all been the sounds of summer for me.

One afternoon not long ago, I was walking along the edge of a nearby field when something sprang out of the tall grass ahead of me. It landed on a weathered fencepost just a few feet away and sat perfectly still. It was a grasshopper. Mottled olive-green in color, perched motionless on the grey wood.

Most of us don’t give grasshoppers much consideration. They hop out of the way, disappear into the weeds, and go about whatever it is grasshoppers spend their summer afternoons doing. We notice them for a second or two, then we continue along on our way.

This time, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I didn’t.

I stopped.

 

 

 

So did the grasshopper. Instead of flying away, he simply remained where he was. And for the next minute or so, we shared the same July afternoon.

The warm breeze stirred the tall grass, but he seemed perfectly content to let the world move around us while he stayed put, his long, folded hind legs bent like coiled springs,

Every so often he rubbed his front legs together with surprising care and diligence. He turned his head ever so slightly now and then, as though surveying the meadow, thin antennae twitching faintly against the gentle breeze. His great round eyes, seemingly too large for his body, appeared to notice everything. Including me.

The longer I watched, the more I realized how little I had ever really looked at a grasshopper before.

Not glanced at one.

Not stepped over one.

Actually looked.

There is an entire little world tucked inside even the most ordinary things, if we are willing to pause long enough to notice.

I found myself smiling.

Here I was, a grown man standing beside an old fence, smiling at a grasshopper, while wondering if he was studying me in the same way. I was completely fascinated by a creature I had probably walked past a thousand times before without giving it a second thought.

It is remarkable how often life hides its ordinary wonders in plain sight.

The grasshopper, meanwhile, seemed to have nowhere else he needed to be.

He didn’t seem to be hurrying toward tomorrow.

He didn’t seem to be  worrying about yesterday.

He didn’t seem to be wishing the afternoon away so evening could arrive.

He simply inhabited the moment.

Standing there, I began to wonder if perhaps that’s something we humans have forgotten over time.

I don’t know when exactly we became so accustomed to rushing through our days.

Perhaps it happens little by little.

We hurry through breakfast because we’re thinking about lunch.

We hurry through the afternoon because dinner and evening are waiting.

We hurry through today because tomorrow is waiting.

We hurry through the week because the weekend is waiting.

We hurry through July because we’re already thinking about Autumn.

And somewhere along the way, we accidentally begin living almost everywhere except where our feet are planted.

The grasshopper knows nothing about calendars. Nothing about deadlines. Nothing about yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s worries.

His entire world is this warm, sunny afternoon.

This fence post.

This breeze.

This blade of grass.

This patch of sunshine.

And somehow . . . .  for one particular moment . . . . that seems enough.

I’m not suggesting we should all become grasshoppers.

Certainly there are bills to pay, errands to run, grandchildren to visit, gardens to tend, and lawns that insist on growing  and needing to be mowed whether we approve it or not.

Life asks things of us, doesn’t it?

But every now and then, perhaps it also invites us . . . .

To stop . . . .

To notice . . . .

To be the grasshopper. To simply inhabit the afternoon which we’ve been given.

Not because it is extraordinary.

But because it is ours.

Our afternoon.

Our ordinarily, extraordinary moment.

Summer has always seemed especially good at offering these little invitations.

A monarch drifting over the milkweed.

The chorus of katydids just before dusk.

The smell of fresh-cut hay.

A hummingbird hovering over the flowers.

Children chasing lightning bugs on a warm summer evening.

A porch swing that somehow rocks a little slower in July than  any other time of year.

None of these moments last very long.

And . . . . perhaps that’s exactly why they matter.

Before long, my little grasshopper companion decided our visit was over.

With a buzz and whirr and one effortless leap he disappeared into the tall grass as suddenly as he had arrived.

I stood there for another minute or two.

Not because I was looking for the grasshopper anymore.

But because I remembered something.

Some of the most rewarding moments in a day arrive quietly.
They ask nothing from us except that we simply be present to notice them.

Maybe . . . .

Just maybe . . . .

That is what the grasshopper already knows.

Till next time then —

Jim (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear —

I asked Chewy, the grasshopper, if he really knew some great secret about enjoying summer.

He just tipped his hat, smiled around his blade of grass, and kept on chewing for a while.

I suppose that was answer enough. Some answers, I suppose, are simply meant to be lived instead of spoken.

—  Red 🐾

Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . .  lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.