Cicadas are the longest lived insects, but don't see the light of day until they're near death. For much of their lives, they live underground-up to 17 years, to be exact. They can only take flight as adults for a few weeks before they reproduce, and die. The cicadas seen aboveground aren't beautiful at all, and are practically defenseless, unable to poison or bite or sting. When I was younger, I wondered if there was any meaning to such seemingly bleak lives. Why do they live for so long only to die so pitifully?
I hated cicadas. They weren't beautiful at all, and their shells marred the trees that I passed by. They were weak and pathetic, and had no obvious uses like bees or flies. Their shrill cries bore into my ears, and I could not sleep when I heard them. They weren't beautiful. So I closed my eyes when I saw them; I ignored them as best as I could. But us humans aren't beautiful either. Beauty, I've found, is a peculiar thing. People say that we should appreciate both outer and inner beauty, and that we are all beautiful. Maybe it's just me being cynical, but I could never reciprocate that sentiment in all honesty. Humans commit horrible deeds just as easily as they commit good deeds. There is no black and white, only the gray in between. I look at myself, and I realize that even if the hated cicadas live 17 years to die an ignoble death, they will have no sins to repent for, while I do.
There is meaning to be found in the life of the cicada. They die shortly after gaining their wings, but in those few weeks, I'm sure they lived beautiful enough lives to make up for those 17 years underground. They themselves still aren't beautiful in my eyes, but I don't ignore them anymore. I no longer hate them. Since we humans too are not beautiful, and that's perfectly fine. If we can gain our own wings and take flight, and give meaning to our lives and to others, then we will have realized the lesson the cicada teaches us. Live life beautifully, no matter how short that life may be.
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