While in Gila National Wilderness

The Fly

A fly committed suicide in our cabin yesterday evening. For three nights before that, I, in my most compassionate Buddha-nature way, had allowed him to buzz circles around my bedroom. Actually, I accepted the droning sound, interrupted by his quiet exploration of window sills and lamp shades, because once I was under the weight of warm blankets, not much could drag me out before morning.

Each day, I’d forget about the little guy, until I settled in to sleep and he would make his presence known once again. 

Last night, my room was quiet when I pulled the covers up around my ears. That’s because earlier in the evening, as Lois and I had just finished heating tortillas in a hot skillet, the fly committed suicide by heat. It could have been an accidental death. Most likely, he didn’t mean to take himself out. But right after we moved the skillet to a cool burner, Mr. Fly flew into it. For a split second, I saw him dance like popcorn— or maybe he was just sizzling. I then realized what was happening, and Lois picked up the pan, but… It was too late. Dancing in three hundred degrees when one weighs about four ten-thousandths of an ounce is, of course, deadly. It would be for anyone.

Often, I notice myself letting out an Ohhh! of sadness and compassion when, for instance, a fly happens to burn up in a pan, or when I see a dead skunk or cat or dog on the side of the road. I not only suffer unnecessary grief for the animal I never knew and who is dead and no longer feeling any pain, I will also find myself sad for the deceased’s family, projecting onto them how bad I would feel if my family member burnt to a crisp in a big, hot skillet. 

So, for no logical reason, or maybe for the best reasons in the world, I had a few moments of sadness for that fly. And I wanted to tell the story of its demise. To honor that tiny being. Really, its story was every bit as important as any other I might tell.


Carol Barrow
November, 2019