On Mercy and Fragility

The Dragonfly with Broken Wings

Yesterday, in the quiet corner of my garden, I met a dragonfly. A magnificent creature — larger than most I have ever seen, dressed in stripes of luminous green and black, its eyes like tiny worlds reflecting the light.

But its wings — delicate, crystalline marvels that once carried it effortlessly above the pond and fields — were torn. On the left side, fragments hung like shattered glass. It could no longer rise, no longer dance in the air the way dragonflies are meant to.

I found myself caught in an ethical dilemma. Do I intervene, to end its suffering swiftly — an abrupt mercy? Or do I instead offer what small comfort I can — shade, water, the dignity of a gentle place to rest — and let nature decide when its final moment comes?

We often speak of strength in terms of soaring, of resilience in terms of rising again. But watching this dragonfly, I began to wonder: is there not also strength in the stillness of accepting one’s condition? Is there not dignity in simply being — broken yet beautiful, fragile yet still alive?

Perhaps my role here is not to rescue, nor to hasten an ending, but simply to witness. To bear silent testimony to a life that mattered, even in its final days. To remind myself that beauty is not diminished by brokenness — sometimes, it is even revealed by it.

In this dragonfly I see the paradox of all life: breathtaking in its brilliance, yet inevitably vulnerable to time and chance. And in its fragile wings, I see my own questions mirrored back to me — about mercy, about control, about what it means to accompany rather than to fix.

Maybe the most profound act of love is not always to change the course of another’s life, but to stand beside them, to hold space for their journey — even when the destination is beyond our reach.

So I sit with the dragonfly, in the dappled shade of my garden, and I let it teach me what only broken wings can teach: that life’s worth is not measured in flight alone.