The Universe has six legs

I walked on the beach, the morning surprisingly warm for October. Somewhere along the way, a small green beetle hitched a ride on my sandal. My initial response was to flick it away, not unkindly. As it traversed the sand, it crawled little spiny-footed step by step toward me. I moved a bit to the right. The beetle stopped and turned to walk toward me once again.

How peculiar!

I moved again, and once again the beetle reoriented in my direction.

Six times this happened, and I thought perhaps I smelled like something the beetle liked, or maybe it liked my energy. Is it possible to have a beetle aura? After confirming with my trusty bug identification app that the beetle would not find me a delish snack and take a nibble, I held it for a moment or two before releasing it to continue on its sandy journey.

I walked to the water and explored the frothy water line and jellyfish graveyard with my son. We poked at seaweed and searched for intact sand dollars.

I left him to play and found a spot to sit, a fleeting thought that I couldn’t find the small green friend even if I tried. I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth on my body. I slipped into a familiar meditative stillness, occasionally peeking at my son, who was delightedly creating towers of sand that were near enough to be demolished by the incoming tide.

My mind was calm. At ease. Breaths rising and falling.

When I opened my eyes again, there was a startling visitor on my leg. I laughed out loud and allowed my little guest to explore a bit. After all, it found me yet again. The beetle crawled on my finger, plodding a course across my hand, bushwacking through my arm hair. Every tickling step followed by 5 more. When it arrived at my bicep, tears sprang to my eyes.

Here’s where it gets hard to explain.

Like most things that are true or moving, it’s difficult to capture an emotion that arises from some deep well of familiarity and strangeness.

I thought of Anni. It’s been nearly three years since she traded her body for something much more formless. I don’t pretend to know what shape that takes, but what occurred to me as this small, green beetle persisted in pursuing me is that maybe Anni sent it with explicit instructions to get my attention and deliver the message that we’re all connected.

Or, maybe - and this is truthfully more how it felt - maybe Anni and the beetle collaborated for a little while. The beetle allowed Anni to hitch a ride, their consciousness working together to use the beetle’s body to pay me a visit. I imagined them having some type of conversation, Anni fluent in beetle-ease of course, where she asked for permission to tag along so she could see me through earth eyes.

The tears came faster.

When the beetle reached my shoulder, I moved it to my other leg. It immediately started the climb up my other arm.

Tears (and snot) in full force now.

All I could think about was how much I missed holding Anni and kissing her beautiful mouth. So much so, that I briefly considered planting a delicate kiss on the beetle’s back.

Maybe Anni misses that too.
Maybe she also wants a kiss.
Maybe she also wants me to hold her.
Maybe she also misses our physical connection.

Was Anni’s consciousness really hitching a ride in a beetle?

Who knows. It doesn’t really matter if it’s true. The experience still opened up a part of me that needed to be expressed.

The yearning for her physical presence has been one of the most painful parts of the past 34 months. That’s never going to go away, no matter how many beetles visit, or rainbows span the sky, or yellow roses bloom on my rosebush.

But I can still be surprised and come undone every time there’s a familiar and profound recognition that we are not alone. We are connected, through nature, through matter, through time and space, through consciousness, through loss, through love.

The Universe reaches out, reminding us it never has to reach very far for what is already true.