Somehow–probably from continuously opening and closing doors due to making what seems to be an endless stream of t-shirts, or from some seemingly universal belief that being inside is better than being outside, or simply because there was light inside and not much outside–our apartment became home to several flies.
It began slowly, with just one, buzzing about innocuously and hardly a nuisance to anyone. But within two days, there were half a dozen of them, and as anyone who has lived with flies can tell you, half a dozen quickly becomes grating. They took to investigating half-eaten food, spending more time in the kitchen than is polite, and generally hovering just on the periphery of every conversation and meal. They soon overstayed their welcome, pushing our patience to the limit by incessantly dive-bombing our faces and buzzing in our ears.
Having no fly swatter and a preternaturally terrible memory, there wasn’t much I did about the problem besides occasionally attempt (a little halfheartedly) to clap the flies between my hands. For a couple days, the daily hum of work in our apartment was punctuated by single, violent claps of sound, as either Brady or I released our wrath (always too slow) upon our airborne guests, waging a war that only we knew we were fighting.
Eventually, however, the annoyance dulled into a weary acceptance. Perhaps this is something others who have lived with flies have also experienced. The claps became less frequent; the erratic flight patterns became less noticeable; the flies themselves seemed to buzz less obstinately.
Life went on; work went on. Days passed, and autumn began to blow in from the north more confidently. Then, one day, as I was working on a glossary for work, I looked around to find that the flies had either died or moved on. The time of the flies, it seemed, was over.
The renewed quiet offered me some opportunity for reflection, which is why I have written out this experience at all. A slight infestation of flies is hardly note-worthy, especially living in Colorado in the late summer/early fall. So why tell you at all?
The context came some days later, while at a work meeting–a particularly frustrating one for me. For some reason, we all seemed incapable of communicating effectively with each other, and intents and meanings were getting lost across the table of the restaurant we sat in. Suddenly, one of my colleagues let out an exasperated shriek and began flapping her hands in the air–a reaction that had nothing to do with the cause of my irritation. Instead, there were two flies circling the table, looking to scavenge the scraps of beans and cheese lingering on plates below. She and a couple others swatted at the flies irritably, with progressive vigor, until one turned to their neighbor and stated, “I HATE flies.”
That was it. At that moment, my English-major brain made the connection and the declaration “It’s a metaphor” flashed through my mind matter-of-factly. Specifically, the flies are a metaphor (though, to be fair, they are also a health concern).
The time of the flies passed without incident for me, partially because I eventually accepted that it was something I could fight (without gaining much ground, I might add) or something I could let go, and wait to pass. I didn’t allow the flies free rein necessarily (I kept them away from my food and face), but I learned to tolerate their existence.
In this way, I think of the flies as the little problems in our lives that are out of our control, but nevertheless can keep us up at night if we let them. We can chase them around, clapping our hands or swatting at them with abandon, but they will not tire. The only accomplishment we may boast is killing one or two, and generally exhausting ourselves through constant vigilance and anger.
Why waste energy on things we can’t change when there are other things that require our attention? Practically speaking, it makes sense to spend time and energy on problems that (a) you are capable of solving, and (b) you need to solve quickly. Philosophically speaking, we inhabit a temporary and impermanent existence, one from which not only shall the flies of our lives pass, but from which we too shall pass.
Perspective and patience both seem to be key in determining the flies from the real problems–a discernment which, I can attest from my time living with flies, will invest your life with more peace.
