My caterpillar teacher

By some standards, I wasn’t a great mother. My kids never had a bouncy-house birthday, never went to Disney, never played sports with a peewee league. Not only did I intentionally deprive my children of these experiences, I also never made good on my vow to drop quarters in a therapy jar so they’d at least have a starter stash for counseling when they got older.

Homeschooled for years and raised on a small farm, my daughters danced just outside of what might be considered a typical life, occasionally stepping over the boundary of that other reality but always coming back again. Lack of socialization wasn’t an issue. Between friend groups, outings, and our weekly commitment to selling produce at the farmers market, they frequently intersected with people of all ages. Brimming over with innocent curiosity and an absence of the demoralizing interpersonal encounters that often show up in same-age school groups, they were better than some grown-ups at sustaining interesting conversations.

The all-out stampede to the door when the UPS driver showed up was humorous and a little embarrassing. I found myself explaining that, despite appearances, my children were not devoid of human contact. It was only that they were eager to tell someone – anyone! – about a recent discovery. I understood their enthusiasm. There was so much to share, and so much to learn.

I learned that a rogue June beetle can do a real number on the inner workings of an espresso machine. I learned that I can’t use my washing machine to rinse aphids off a load of lettuce. Not even on the delicate cycle. And, I learned that a rooster run over with a golf cart makes a unique noise, a mix of whoopee cushion and squeaky toy. Miraculously, he lived to crow about it.

Nature has always been my greatest teacher, the most meaningful lessons emerging from my unwillingness to accept her leadership. There was the futile attempt to save the tiny bunnies snatched from their nest - one, two, three, four - by our formerly feral, bruiser of a cat. There were the seven chickens, out of their coop just slightly past sundown, who literally lost their heads in a matter of moments to a single, deft, great horned owl. I lost sleep to the shriek of foxes, to the snake-induced scuffle of pullets, to the wailing of children, to the call of the night, an insistent, disruptive reminder of my inability to protect life from itself.

Through trial and error, we learned when to leave the eastern black swallowtail caterpillars outside rather than bringing them in the house to watch them transform in captivity. A successful hatch went something like this: We’d collect one that was already well along in its growth, fat like a baby’s finger and brilliantly striped. That way, we’d spend less time feeding it before it was ready to pupate. In a day’s time, one caterpillar could make quick work out of a mason jar’s worth of fennel or parsley, chewing it up and shooting it out the opposite end like dark green BBs. Timed well, though, we’d go from feeding frenzy to emergent butterfly in just two weeks.

But, if we captured one too late in the season, it stalled out in the chrysalis stage, its larval intelligence refined enough to sense changes of temperature and day length, instinct signaling the need to hold off on a full metamorphosis until the weather and, of course, food supplies were more accommodating. Imagine that - a creature as apparently simple as a caterpillar able to not only know when emergence is safe but to also be able to hold itself in a liminal state for two-thirds of a year!

One October, before we had sorted all of this out, we brought a wriggly friend indoors. We gave it a lovely home, a glass sphere that would later serve as a goldfish condo, a real upgrade from the usual mason jar. But, the bowl lacked a proper lid, and our caterpillar escaped. Despite a concerted search and rescue mission, we never found it. I spent more than a few minutes feeling guilty about subjecting the poor critter to an unnatural, homebound demise, likely from the claws of a curious cat.

That caterpillar was the farthest thing from my mind the following Mother’s Day. We were busy doing whatever we did that year. I’m sure it wasn’t breakfast in bed. I wouldn’t have wanted that in the first place, but I can rule it out with certainty, because I was standing in the middle of our tiny farm cottage kitchen, cooking breakfast, when a fully formed eastern black swallowtail butterfly fluttered out from under the enamel-topped table and landed at my feet.

It was our wayward friend, all winged and spectacular, and not at all lost! It had merely tucked up for the winter underneath the apron of that table. And, it waited all that time, possibly bearing witness, from inside its modest, brown exoskeleton, to the steady parade of life energy through that kitchen – baby ducks and neighboring dogs, ailing chickens and injured songbirds, exuberant children and steady partner. It waited until the spring sun reignited its urge to transform. It waited long enough for me to learn.

~Elizabeth