Springer's Journey

People often ask me why I love bioluminescence.

Actually, that’s not true.

Almost nobody asks me.

I ask them what their favorite word is.

Mine is “bioluminescence.”

It feels beautiful coming out of my mouth, and it paints a beautiful picture in my mind.

For years, I thought I loved it because of the science.

I wanted to know how those little glowing insects made light.

I HAD to know.

That’s who I am.

If something glows, flashes, sparkles, flies, swims, or crawls, I want to know why.

But recently, while talking with a friend, I realized something.

The glow isn’t what fascinated me.

The bugs did.

They’re tiny.

They’re slow.

And every few seconds they announce their exact location to the world.

Blink.

“There I am.”

Blink.

“Still here.”

Blink.

“Right over here if anybody wants to eat me.”

From a survival standpoint, this seems like a terrible plan.

I spent years rescuing wildlife.

I know predators.

I’ve held Golden Eagles.

I’ve transported hawks and owls.

I’ve watched nature up close.

The world is not always gentle.

And yet these little blinking Christmas lights continue to exist.

How?

Why?

They should have disappeared a long time ago.

But they didn’t.

They simply float through the darkness, glowing.

Not hiding.

Not apologizing.

Not asking permission.

Just being exactly what they are.

Years ago, when life felt particularly heavy, those little lights brought me back to life.

At the time I thought it was because they made me curious.

And that’s true.

I wanted to understand them.

But now I think there was something more.

I think they gave me hope.

Not because they were powerful.

Quite the opposite.

Because they weren’t.

They were vulnerable.

Tiny.

Visible.

Fragile.

And somehow they survived anyway.

That realization struck me harder than any chemistry lesson.

I have spent much of my life admiring competence.

The eyesight of an eagle.

The intelligence of a raven.

The engineering of flight.

The elegance of chemistry.

But those little glowing bugs taught me something different.

They taught me that survival doesn’t always belong to the strongest thing in the forest.

Sometimes survival belongs to the thing that continues to shine.

Even in the dark.

Even in a world that can be harsh.

Even after being hurt.

I don’t know if insects can teach life lessons.

That’s probably me assigning human qualities where they don’t belong.

But I do know this:

Those tiny blinking lights appeared at a time when I desperately needed wonder.

And somehow they reminded me that curiosity was still alive.

That beauty was still alive.

That I was still alive.

Blink.

Still here.

Blink.

Still curious.

Blink.

Still looking for beautiful things.

And for that, I will always be grateful.