The Day of the Mayflies

A warm, still morning in late May, a bright sun glittering on the wide waters of the Thames outside London. I woke in the quiet cocoon of our beautiful narrowboat, Sanctuary, moored on the river, close to the magical lake at Dorney, where the spirits of the Olympians who rowed there still linger in the air as you walk in the quiet grounds after hours.

As I looked sleepily out of the window, waiting for the kettle to boil, my feet below the waterline and my kitchen worktops only inches above it, my gaze rested low on the surface of the water. Then I saw it - that moment when the surface-tension was broken by the emergence of a tiny insect, pushing against the strength of the barrier between it and the air. A Mayfly, specifically Ephemera Danica, the most common of mayflies but nonetheless delicately beautiful. Almost instantly the gossamer wings were beating and the three-forked tail streaming in the fresh morning air.

My attention now captured, I continued to watch, teamaking forgotten, as the water was pierced by hundreds, no thousands of these minute creatures fighting their way out of the depths to dance above the twinkling tide. Before long the first few feet of airspace was filled with miniature ballerinas, each seeking a partner with whom to twirl joyously in the growing heat of the day.

Later, in the hot, still summery afternoon I watched the swirling clouds of wings and tails some more. Gradually the pairs of dancing dryads disentangled themselves and flew more slowly their separate ways, the females dipping their tails to the water to hold themselves still for a moment and lay their eggs which float gently down to the sandy river bed to wait for the next May. And then, as evening crept across the golden stream, each insect fell to the surface and was still, carried away on the current, it's brief life in the sunshine complete.

May is a month that heightens my awareness of the passing of time and the brevity of life. My birthday, early in the month, reminding me that we don't know how many we will celebrate, and to make the most of each fleeting year. The blossom on the Hawthorn, hiding it's thorns for a while, sharpening the grief of my best friend's passing, my birthday buddy, my heart's echo, born amidst the may-blossom and taken too soon for me to comprehend. We thought we would share birthdays stretching into old age, be there at the weddings of each other's children, rejoice together in the births of grandchildren and even great grandchildren. My heart aches still and I mourn more deeply as each spring unfolds, a life lived without my soul mate.

I think of her in so many everyday moments - the way she cut peaches into tiny pieces to sprinkle on our toddler's cereals one summer, her voice talking to my tiny daughter in the next door shower cubicle on a campsite, her request to see the lavender fields one last time....

As this May approaches, my awareness of the fragility of life is more focused than perhaps I am used to. More losses along the way have reminded me that the human condition is by nature impermanent and I should notice and value each moment, drinking in the details, tucking away the memories, but also grabbing the opportunities and savouring every experience. Determined to dance like the mayflies for as long as I am privileged to do so!