The loss of awe and wonder is the price one pays for putting everything in a container of certainty and sealing the lid.
It was a southern summer evening. My backyard began to blink as I ran barefoot through the grass with my jar. Amazed that anything could glow at all. I scooped a few fireflies inside. And screwed the lid on tight. I wanted to keep them safe. And to keep the wonder of it all close at hand. The jar glowed on my dresser as I slowly fell asleep. By morning, the light was gone. And so was the wonder. The fireflies lay still at the bottom of my container. Most of us have never really stopped catching fireflies. Only now the containers hold our opinions, our plans, even the people we love. “I already know how this goes.” “That’s just how she is.” “That’s just how I am.” Each lid twisted a little tighter. Certainty feels like safety. Few of us notice the price until the light inside has gone dim.
The jar isn’t the problem. We all need something to hold. To carry what we know. The trouble is the seal. Somewhere along the way, someone tries to show us how to poke a few holes in the lid. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to let a little air in. Just enough for whatever is inside to keep breathing … and keep glowing. And growing. At first, the holes may need to be small. Until we can make them wide enough for our fireflies to lead us back into the greater whole. After all, they were never ours to keep. Only ours to let breathe.
For further reflection
What have I sealed tight with certainty that might still glow if I gave it a little air?