Maybe They've Always Been There

An ordinary summer evening reminded me that sometimes the things we're looking for never disappeared—we simply stopped noticing them.

The other evening—more accurately, at dusk—I looked out the kitchen shutters to check on things outside. To my absolute delight, I saw lightning bugs. Not just one or two, but enough to instantly transport me back to my childhood home in Ohio.

In a matter of seconds, I was no longer standing in my mother’s kitchen. For just a moment, I was running barefoot through the yard as a child, trying to catch those beautiful flying lanterns before darkness completely settled in.

It made me realize I hadn’t noticed lightning bugs in a very long time. Maybe they’d always been there, and I’d simply been too busy to look. I imagine that’s the case.

Summers in Ohio during the 1960s and ‘70s were special. We lived outside, and summer seemed to stretch on forever. We stayed out until the lightning bugs appeared. We stayed out until it was dark enough to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We stayed out until mothers yelled for their children to come in—and even then, we stayed out.

Of course, I’m not the first person to realize how easily we overlook the ordinary while we’re busy with life. But recognizing it for myself made it feel important again. This isn’t really about my childhood. It’s about realizing how long it’s been since I slowed down enough to notice what was happening in my own backyard.

Mornings are my quiet “me” time—especially on weekends. I love sitting on the porch with my tea, listening to the birds and watching the always-entertaining squirrels before my day begins.

Watching those lightning bugs reminded me that evenings used to be my favorite part of the day. Somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing them. I decided then and there to make a point to start spending a few minutes on the porch, enjoying the quiet and watching nature.

A few nights later, I was on the couch scrolling while the television played in the background, ‘relaxing’ after the normal whirlwind of getting my mother ready for bed, packing her lunch and breakfast for tomorrow, getting my own things together, starting a load of laundry, and feeding the cats.

Then I suddenly realized something.

I’d already forgotten to go outside.

Only a few days earlier, those lightning bugs had inspired me enough to write this essay, and already I was slipping back into my usual routine.

So I carried my tea out to the back porch.

One squirrel scampered down a tree to investigate the peanuts I’d left outside. A chickadee stopped briefly at one of the feeders. Beyond the fence, I could hear the steady traffic that never really goes away.

But there was also a cool breeze.

No television.

No phone.

Just me, my cats, and the quiet of the evening.

As I sipped my tea, one brave lightning bug drifted across the yard.

Maybe they’d been there all along.