In the soil beneath your feet, something is waiting.
It's been there for 7 years. Then 10. Then 15.
Not sleeping. Not hibernating. Working.
The cicada nymph feeds on tree roots. Grows through five molts. Tunnels slowly upward. Tracks time by counting leaf cycles in the xylem sap above.
Seventeen springs. Seventeen winters. Seventeen seasons of invisible preparation.
Nobody sees it. Nobody knows it's there.
The world above moves fast. Annual cicadas emerge every year. Quick cycles. Constant visibility.
The 17-year cicada stays underground.
Feeding. Growing. Waiting for 64 degrees.
Not because it's slow. Because some things require 17 years underground.
What have you been doing that nobody sees?
Vincent van Gogh sold one painting while alive. One.
Died at 37. Unknown. Dismissed. A failure by every visible metric.
Today: $85 million for "The Red Vineyard." Museums fight for his work. His name synonymous with genius.
Johannes Vermeer: 34 paintings. Forgotten for 200 years. Now priceless.
Emily Dickinson: 1,800 poems. Published 10 in her lifetime. All anonymously.
We built museums to honor them. After they died.
We write books about their genius. After they died.
We tell students to aspire to their level. After they died.
While they were alive? Crickets.
Society has a pattern: Ignore the 17-year cicada. Celebrate it posthumously.
Who do we worship now that we ignored when alive?
While van Gogh painted: "Maybe try something more commercial?"
After van Gogh died: "Uncompromising vision! True artist!"
While Dickinson wrote: "Why don't you publish under your name?"
After Dickinson died: "Revolutionary poet! Singular voice!"
While Melville wrote Moby Dick: "Boring. Too long. Nobody will read this."
After Melville died: "Greatest American novel! Required reading!"
There's a penalty for being alive while working on something that takes time.
The culture punishes slow mastery in the living. Celebrates it in the dead.
You're in Year 14 underground. The world asks: "Still digging?"
The cicada doesn't respond. It feeds. It grows. It waits for Year 17.
What do people say about your 17-year work?
Year 17. Soil temperature hits 64°F. Eight inches below ground.
The signal. Not before. Not after. Exactly 64 degrees.
The cicada tunnels upward. Breaks surface at dusk. Climbs the nearest tree.
The exoskeleton splits. The adult emerges. Wings unfold. Green and fresh.
By morning: hardened. Ready. Seventeen years for this moment.
Not 16 years. Not 18 years. Seventeen.
Prime number. No predators sync to it. Perfect evolutionary timing.
Van Gogh painted 900 paintings before he died. Monet painted 2,500. Picasso: 50,000.
The work underground determines the emergence above.
You don't skip Year 14 to get to Year 17. You live Year 14. Then Year 15. Then Year 16.
The cicada knows: There's no shortcut to 64 degrees.
What's the condition you're waiting for?
They emerge together. Not one. Not a few. 1.5 million per acre.
The males sing. All at once. 100 decibels. Louder than a lawnmower. Louder than a chainsaw.
The chorus lasts six weeks. They mate. Lay eggs. Die.
The eggs hatch. The nymphs drop to the ground. Burrow down.
Begin another 17 years.
One cicada emerging alone? Invisible. Easy prey. Pointless.
1.5 million cicadas? Undeniable. Overwhelming. Impossible to ignore.
Van Gogh painted alone. Died alone. But his work joined a chorus: Impressionists. Post-impressionists. Modernists.
Dickinson wrote alone. But her poems joined a chorus: American poetry. Feminist literature. Confessional writing.
You're not emerging alone. You're part of a 17-year cycle.
Others are underground too. Year 12. Year 15. Year 16.
When you emerge, you won't be the only one. You'll be part of the chorus.
Who's working on something nobody sees yet?
The cicada doesn't apologize for taking 17 years.
It doesn't rush to Year 12 and try to emerge early. It doesn't explain why it's still underground in Year 15.
It simply waits. Feeds. Grows. Until 64 degrees.
Then it emerges. Joins the chorus. Completes the cycle.
Van Gogh didn't apologize for taking years to develop his style. He painted 900 paintings. Sold one. Kept painting.
Dickinson didn't apologize for writing 1,800 poems nobody read. She kept writing.
Vermeer didn't apologize for painting slowly. 34 paintings. Each one: years.
The art of waiting isn't passive. It's active preparation.
You're in Year 14. Feed. Grow. Track the cycles. Wait for your 64 degrees.
The world will ask: "When will you emerge?"
You answer: "Year 17."
Not because you're slow. Because some things are worth 17 years underground.
What are you willing to wait 17 years for?
Somewhere underground, another nymph is in Year 1.
Somewhere else, Year 8. Year 12. Year 16.
Each one: feeding, growing, waiting.
Not behind. Not ahead. In the cycle.
Year 17 comes for everyone. Not on your timeline. On the cycle's timeline.
The cicada teaches: Some things are worth 17 years underground.