just out the door

             After finally gathering up enough courage to face the day, I slowly rolled out of bed and opened the shutters to groggily survey the courtyard below.  I peered into the parsley-rosemary-caterpillar world, a small patch of vibrant greens speckled by the yellow of small blossoms.  My blurry eyes tried to focus on some movement, and squinting hard, my vision cleared and I let out a small gasp of surprise.  I propelled myself down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen, and out the door into the courtyard.

            I gasped again, this time in awe, as the black swallowtail paused its fight against the netting to open its wings threateningly as I approached.  My mind finally cleared away the last cobwebs of sleep as this wild, beautiful creature stood its ground.  The butterfly’s wings a satiny black, etched by veins filled with life-giving liquid.  Bright yellow and blue spots curved along the edge of its wings to create a delicate but menacing face to scare off predators.        

   

            It beat its wings again trying to fly up, up, up.  Its antennae and face were through the netting, but its wings were caught on the other side, and it fought to be free.  I had known that the netting, that kept out the birds and discouraged the wasps, would pose an obstacle for the newly emerged butterflies, but I had wanted to give the caterpillars a fighting chance.  But now, watching the swallowtail try to force itself through the narrow netting, I began to weigh the benefits with the risks. I had to act fast before it hurt itself.

            I pulled the netting up from the ground, fumbling to create an opening for the butterfly.  It rested again, watching me, almost laughing at me as I became tangled in the netting; better me than the fragile butterfly.  I held the net above my head; urging it to just fly, fly away.  And it did.  It took flight into the sun, pumping its wings up and down and up and down, teetering in the light breeze, until I couldn’t see it any more.  It was gone so fast, I ran back through the house, out the front door, to see if I could catch another glimpse, or get a hint as to where it was headed.  But it was off, headed to a wonderland of sweet nectar, to start the cycle once again.

            Back in the courtyard, I checked the chrysalises to find which one had hatched, but they were all intact, bright green.  This had been a bonus butterfly, magical, forming from nothing but sunshine, wind, and goodwill.  I searched the rosemary, squinting through the fragrant herb until my eyes rested on the never-before-seen shell of the hollow chrysalis.  I shook my head in disbelief—in wonder—and I smiled to myself, to the butterfly, and to the great camouflage nature provides. 

            I found the baby caterpillar, now a “teenager,” and watched it munch fresh parsley leaves.  Then, I noticed a new baby nearby, black and speckled with yellow, becoming oriented with its large surroundings.  Smiling down, like the mother they would never know, I thought of how lucky I was to witness all of this life, and every good and difficult thing that comes with it—the struggles and successes, birth and death and finally freedom—through my window, just out the door.

before turning into a chrysalis

             Immediately after returning home from D.C. for a doctor’s appointment and to visit family, I went out to the courtyard to check on the caterpillars.  A few weeks earlier, a Swallowtail butterfly had laid its small yellow eggs on the bolted parsley blossoms.  Once hatched, the caterpillars munch on the leaves and flowers, growing and expanding from little black “turds,” to spotted yellow and black, to a beautiful bright green with black and yellow spots running the length of their bodies.  When ready to pupate, the caterpillars travel to a nearby plant on which they will attach before turning into a chrysalis.  At one time, I counted seven caterpillars and two eggs.  Then, they began to disappear.

            As they disappeared, others hatched, but at a slower rate.  Before I left for my long weekend away, I counted two “babies,” one “teenager,” and two “adults” (I label them this way depending on their size and color).  When I checked on them upon my return, one had pupated, two others were attaching to the rosemary, and one “teenager” munched away at the parsley; one had disappeared.

            Mocking birds and catbirds had become very interested in the courtyard since the yellow eggs began hatching, much to the dismay of my poor peeved cat.  Perhaps they were finding a nice feast on the parsley.  The next day, I checked on the caterpillars again and the “teenager” was missing.

            “No, no, no, no!”  I cried out loud to the parsley, the birds, and the wind.  I searched through the stalks and leaves, swatting a wasp away.  But the wasp kept coming back, flying around, zoning in on the parsley.  I glared at it.  It was too interested.  Finally, the wasp landed on the ground next to the planter of herbs and I looked on in horror.  It sat on a half-eaten caterpillar corpse, masticated parsley oozing out.

            I yelled at it, flinging insults and threats, and cursing its very existence.  I grabbed a nearby rock and lunged at the wasp, giving away my moves as it zoomed away.  I took a breath and waited for it to return to its meal.  This time, I pounced and crushed it.  I angrily buried the wasp in the mulch, and then carefully, almost reverently, I covered the caterpillar’s remains with soft, rich soil.

            So, wasps were the culprits, perhaps acting in tandem with the birds.  Then and there, I claimed that wasps were the embodiment of all that is evil.  And I hated them.  As I strived to love and accept all beings, I hated wasps.  I stared at the recent battleground, meditating on this poisonous idea of hatred. 

            What is the purpose of wasps?  Is there any benefit to their existence?  I looked online for the answer and learned that, yes, wasps and beneficial!  Wasps kill garden pests, like caterpillars, and bring them back to their nest to feed their young.  Then, the article went on to mention that, however, if you have a butterfly garden, the wasp would be the pest.  I grumbled to myself.  Having worked on three organic farms, I should have worshiped this mighty predator, but now, we were on opposite sides of the battle.

            The next day, I found a new “baby.”  With the support of my mom, I swore to watch over it until it turned into a chrysalis.  We covered the parsley in the smallest netting we could find—not quite small enough—and hung up a wasp trap in a nearby tree.  The netting would at least keep the birds away, and it might present a challenge to impatient wasps.  

            Presently, I have been heading into the courtyard to check on the caterpillars and chrysalises obsessively throughout the day.  There are three chrysalises and still the one “baby.”  I look forward to seeing the butterflies emerge, stretching their new fragile wings, and warming in the sun—to start the cycle once again.