Like Doppler radar, I moved towards and away from the suspicious sound. I wondered if the crack in my driveway was finally wide enough to trap a young squirrel—I didn’t want to look.
I walked back inside and told my young son that the driveway was singing the way some people might say “we’re out of milk.” He knew what to do.
Jake ventured out to investigate and found the source within seconds. By moving some debris around with a skinny stick, he uncovered a little, chirping twerp in the crack. It was no squished squirrel.
The insect was black and 40% of its body was eyeballs. As we peered down at him, he looked right back up at us. His antennae swung wildly about as he used his limited senses to establish: 1) how big we were and 2) whether or not we would eat him.
Deep in the tiny crevasse, the movement of his black limbs was visible. He wasn’t riding a bike or jogging in place—like a tiny cellist,
he was making music with his legs.
Maternal instinct kicked in as I co-dependently struggled to solve his problem. Did his little cricket diaper need changing? Had his glue stick run dry? Did he want to climb out of the crack after a long nap?
The more I looked at him, the more he seemed to speak only to me. I opened my heart to his soul and heard, “I’m just a cricket in a hole. Go away so I can be a cricket outside of a hole.” Rude! I fought the urge to poke at him with a stick.
That’s when I realized how much I respected that cricket’s wisdom and right to privacy.
As Jake and I stood up, he spoke to our backlit silhouettes, “I may be on the bottom of the food chain, but I have a voice,” he said. It’s a cricket voice—so— chirp!” Somehow I got the message.
A gentle song calls gentle people—the kind that won’t poke you with a stick.
Call gently. Be happy.