The Dragonfly on My Nose

The old sawmill at Eidstøa, by Lake Vegår, has witnessed much through the years. It has heard the sound of saw blades cutting through timber, carried the scent of freshly cut pine and spruce, and stood as generations of people made their living from the forests and the lake. The sawmill is a reminder of a time when nature was not primarily a place for recreation but the very foundation of life itself. Every plank that was cut, every log floated across the water, carried with it a fragment of the forest's history.

On this particular day, there was silence. Only the wind moved gently through the trees, and the surface of the lake lay almost perfectly still. I was sitting beside the old sawmill when a dragonfly suddenly appeared. It circled briefly in front of my face, landed on my nose—and stayed there.

Not for a few seconds.

For fifteen minutes.

Two living beings sharing the same moment.

It is impossible to know what the dragonfly experienced. Perhaps my nose was simply a warm place to rest. Like all insects, dragonflies depend on external warmth to function at their best. They do not perceive heat the way some snakes do, but they are naturally drawn to sun-warmed surfaces. Perhaps I was nothing more than a breathing stone.

Yet the encounter felt like something more.

The dragonfly remained completely at ease. Its transparent wings shimmered with golden light in the afternoon sun. Every now and then its enormous compound eyes, made up of thousands of tiny lenses, turned quietly toward the surrounding world. It seemed neither frightened nor restless. I, too, remained perfectly still. After a few minutes, the distinction between insect and human began to fade. We were simply two creatures sharing the same silence.

The dragonfly is one of nature's oldest wonders. Its ancestors flew across the Earth more than 300 million years ago, long before the age of dinosaurs. It embodies an evolutionary history almost beyond comprehension. Yet the adult dragonfly often lives only a few weeks or months. Most of its life is spent hidden beneath the water as a nymph. Only toward the end does it emerge from the surface, unfold its wings, and become a creature of the air.

Nature seems to remind us that what appears brief may be the culmination of a very long becoming.

As a practical philosopher, I have always been fascinated by such encounters. We humans often imagine ourselves standing outside nature, observing it. But every now and then the opposite happens.

Nature observes us.

Perhaps the little dragonfly was not only exploring the world around it. Perhaps, in its own way, it was exploring me.

Martin Buber wrote about the relationship between I and Thou—those rare moments when another being is no longer an object to be analyzed or used, but a living presence encountered with openness and respect. Buber wrote about human relationships, yet perhaps nature offers similar experiences. When we stop trying to control the world and simply become present within it, something unexpected can happen.

I do not believe the dragonfly came to deliver a personal message. Nature rarely speaks in that way. But it offers experiences that may become wisdom if we are attentive enough to receive them.

The old sawmill reminds us of human labour.

The dragonfly reminds us of the beauty of life.

Together they told a story about two ways of being in the world. One shapes timber, builds houses, and leaves visible traces. The other lives lightly, almost weightlessly, reminding us that not everything of value can be possessed or fully understood.

After fifteen minutes, the dragonfly lifted itself almost soundlessly into the air. A few effortless wingbeats, and it disappeared across the lake.

I remained where I was.

Not with the feeling that something supernatural had taken place, but with a quiet gratitude for having borrowed fifteen minutes from another life. In an age of constant movement and endless distractions, it was a small stretch of time without purpose or ambition—and perhaps that is precisely why it became so meaningful.

The old sawmill still stands beside Lake Vegår, carrying the memory of generations of human work. But on that summer day it also witnessed another encounter: one between a human being and a dragonfly, each finding, in its own way, a brief moment of rest beneath the same warm sun.

I do not think the dragonfly will remember me.

But I know that I will remember it.

The old sawmill reminds us of human labour.

The dragonfly reminds us of the beauty of life.