The Hum of Connection: What a Dragonfly Taught Me About Migration

Today, I stood beneath the canopy of a great maple tree growing in my yard. Judging by its immense size and the way its massive limbs stretch outward to drink in the sun, it is easily fifty or more years old. I have always understood this tree to be a living entity. And while there may be an unspoken communication barrier between the old maple and me, I still find immense comfort just sitting beneath its shelter—avoiding the midday heat, feeling the breeze, and listening to the quiet life of the yard.

But today, the rhythm of the afternoon shifted.

I noticed a dragonfly with its wing caught beneath a rough piece of bark on the maple’s trunk. It was a strange creature, oddly colored and unlike any dragonfly I had ever seen before. Now, I am no lover of insects, but looking at that delicate, paper-thin wing pinned by the heavy bark, a wave of compassion took over. I felt acutely that if I didn't intervene, it would die there.

Using a small stick, I gently pried the piece of bark loose. The old maple didn't care; it could easily afford to lose a fragment of its armor, possessing so much more.

What happened next, however, defied the usual rules of nature. Once freed, the dragonfly buzzed away, but then it immediately circled back. It flew toward me and landed directly on my foot. Ordinarily, I wouldn't take kindly to a bug resting on me, but this didn’t feel like an accidental landing. It felt like a deliberate connection—as if this tiny creature was offering, in its own limited way, a gesture of gratitude.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it whirred upward, passing so close to my head that its wings stirred the hair near my ear.

In that sharp, sudden buzz, I heard something profound. It was the distinct hum of connection. In an instant, the tree, the earth, the sky, the insect, and myself all dissolved into a single thing. All alive. All present. Everywhere.

And in that moment, I knew beyond knowing that there is perpetuity here.

We live in a world obsessed with endings, particularly the finality of biological death. We view it as a dropping curtain, a sudden void. But watching that dragonfly break free and ascend, I realized that nothing is ever truly gone. Everything transforms. Everything migrates. Everything becomes.

We are all caught in a beautiful, endless cycle of becoming, all the time, everywhere. Even now, in our waking human lives, our every motion, choice, and deliberation is a step toward something else, even if we do not fully understand the destination.

In this context, what we call biological death is likely nothing more than a migration from one level of existence to another. It is not an extinction, but a shedding of skin. Just as the dragonfly had to be released from the heavy, protective bark of the maple to claim the sky, we too must eventually shed our physical forms.

We must become ether so that we can better move toward even higher levels of being. We are not ending; we are simply preparing for the next flight.