For the last few weeks, I’ve been irrationally invested in three Monarch caterpillars. You can read the start of this adventure here: Little Green Globs of… Joy?
Over this time, my vocabulary grew: Fraas, instar, cremaster, hemolymph, meconium, eclosion… The list goes on, but this isn’t Biology class, so I’ll not dwell in nerd-ville and get right to the process:
First came the alarming amount of milkweed consumption. Stick in a sprig one thousand times the size of the caterpillar, and within hours, we strip the leaves from the stems.
Then rapid growth, from the size of an eyelash to a chonky worm the length of a pinky finger. Multiple molts as we outgrow our hides.
With gluttony checked off the list, we wander and wander in circles, shopping for real estate. We climb to the top of the enclosure and secure the perfect place to hang out.
Then we spit the silk pad. Not glamorous, but an unskippable step.
Pad in place, we turn upside down, secure our butts to the silk and hang in a “J” until we’re….
Ready to wiggle. And jiggle. We shed our striped skin one last time and allow the layer under to harden into a beautiful gold-dotted jade chrysalis.
Then we wait.
There were a few moments I wondered if anything was happening in the hardened chrysalides. Was the room too hot? Did a cat bump the enclosure? Was something silently going wrong?
All the waiting.
Well, I waited. I’m not sure if the caterpillar “waited,” since it’s literally dissolving its former identity and construction is underway.
Inside the chrysalis, imaginal disc cells (sorry for the extra vocab word, but this one is important) contain the blueprint for antennae, legs, compound eyes and, of course, the wings.
Wings.
The caterpillar couldn’t possibly have known of flight. He had no language for wings. He only knew milkweed. Those imaginal disks were a part of him all along, but he didn’t have access to them. He didn’t need to, nor could he, “imagine” anything in the milkweed-munching days.
But inside the chrysalis? Well, that’s a different story...
One day, the chrysalis darkens a bit, then becomes transparent. Visible inside are the orange and black wings, wrapped up tight.
Somewhere around dawn, the chrysalis splits, and the butterfly emerges crumpled and wet. It clings to the chrysalis shell for hours, pumping its wings.
And then, just like that, it demands space to test out those wings.
All three of mine were released and flew away, healthy and vibrant. Two hung out on my finger for a bit before takeoff.
Let’s say I am in awe of Mother Nature anew. Three completely different lives in a single little being.
Along this journey, the similarities between myself and these creatures did not go unnoticed.
The overeating.
The wandering in circles.
Wondering if I should spit or hang upside down...
Wrapped up in a blanket, waiting for something to happen.
Not knowing if anything is happening.
After the unexpected events and the steady outbreaks of chaos over the last few years, I cannot imagine what life will be like a year from now. My magic wand was lost in the mail, and the crystal ball works, but only occasionally. The next chapter can’t even be imagined from where I’m standing.
I need a silk pad. One tiny thing that holds steady while everything else dissolves and morphs.
Writing has been my anchor for over a decade. The one constant that’s from within me. And even though life and grief ebb and flow, and I might not have the brain cells to sit down and write for stretches of time, it is there.
Just… waiting until I have the language for wings.
