Fireflies and Monuments

WASHINGTON, D.C.—I was lost and trying to find my way out of the woods during a jog along the Potamac last year when I saw fireflies for the first time. I had crossed a footbridge onto a small, unkempt haven of luscious plant life called Theodore Roosevelt Island when I witnessed the first abrupt flicker.

Wow, I thought, isn’t that something?

Wandering along the unpaved path, I knew—or rather, remembered—that this is what it felt like to believe in magic. I grew so distracted by the beautiful flashes that I accidentally ran up on a deer before realizing I should  make my way back toward Georgetown before dark.

The same sensation overcame me the first time I walked by the Lincoln Memorial—also last year—when I found it lit from all directions, standing upright in the dramatic glow of nationalism. A gentle twinge of captivation took over and I stared on, fascinated, perplexed, uncomplicated.

Coming back to DC this summer, I expected my stupid bewilderment at the fireflies and the light-works to dissipate, but here I am a month into my stay and my jaw still drops in childish bewilderment every time I see a firefly or a dramatic display of lights.

Sure, these reactions—to fireflies and monuments, to nature and patriotism, to magic and might—betray my pretense for thoughtfulness and my aspiration toward nuance. No, I don’t believe in magic. And I am always suspicious of the too-easy relationship between art and nationalism.

But given a display of pretty lights, I look on mindlessly and effortlessly.