On Looking at a Jellyfish

A response to a photograph of a jellyfish, written
while leading a creative writing
workshop for high school students.


The depth of the dark blue, almost purple, water beckons to me, for there float the most fragile of creatures, their thin white threads swaying with the unseen current. Their transparency is so lovely, globs of clear white jell bobbing aimlessly before my eyes. At the aquariums I’ve visited, I can routinely pass by the coral reef exhibits, though the electric colors found there do call for a second glance. Lost to me are the lake exhibits offering heavy brown fish suspended in murky water.

But the jellyfish! I stand in front of those exhibits too long, most likely annoying the mothers of small children who crowd in behind me. Often the jellyfish exhibits are showcased behind floor to ceiling glass, and the feathery transparent bodies perform a slow motion ricochet dance. I am jealous of those jellied bodies buoyed by the liquid that surrounds them, submerges them, rocks them. What worries can a jellyfish have? What distractions? What obligations?

Watching them, a calm moves over me. I yearn for the quiet I imagine exists behind the glass, as I drift reluctantly away from the exhibit and then on to the exit where I shake off the cool blue water and my noisy, turbulent life engulfs me once more.