What Carries Through - a lesson from a butterfly
By Christie McGraw
Change can be violent.
I just can’t seem to shake that thought. It started when I saw my then 5-year-old son pressing his face against a butterfly kit enclosure. On the surface, the owner of this kit gets to watch some fuzzy caterpillars transform into a creature that is known for having an almost mythical quality. Life isn’t about the surface though.
Our caterpillars had created their chrysalises. These temporary dwellings were now precariously hanging from the ceiling of the kit. As we watched in awe, the cocoons began to shake. It was the shaking of a being who somehow knows life will never be the same. It is a shaking that stretches across species. It’s the body’s way of expelling every ounce of its energy into an involuntary movement that reminds us we are alive- despite it all.
On a farm, change runs rampant. It’s the right home for an insect whose very life symbolizes transformation. At Bowers Farm, we nurture these creatures by planting a wide variety of plants like milkweed, butterfly bush, aster, cone flowers, and daisies. Milkweed attracts the once- endangered monarch butterfly to our gardens. Both monarch caterpillars and butterflies rely on milkweed as a food source. Fortunately, milkweed wields a sword. It is not poisonous to butterflies, but it is poisonous to many other animals. Most importantly, it’s poisonous to animals that prey on monarchs. Animals that eat butterflies learn that they could in turn be eating milkweed. Under the skin of these winged seraphic insects, there is a quiet threat.
There are also secrets lurking inside of a chrysalis.The most cutting one is that the caterpillar does not gracefully develop into beauty. Instead, it effectively dissolves itself into an amorphous soup. An almost, but not quite complete destruction. Then, with just a DNA blueprint and a few remaining specialized cells, there is reconstructed a completely new and enchanting creature to start life- again. The theory behind the mystery of the cocoon phase is that a caterpillar is designed for self-destruction. They release a stomach acid-like substance that breaks their body down. They do this because of instinct. There is no signed promise of a resurrection day.
In nature, destruction is a vital step before something can thrive. At Bowers, I once watched a controlled burn with a group of students. We were perched near the barns, staring as flames lapped up parts of the beloved marshlands. Reeds shook and smoke snaked around the tall trees who watched like elders over the scene. Children tend to have one lens for destruction. I had to explain to them that this happens in the wild, too. That nature has created a system where fire cleanses the soil. It frees the trees from invasive species gripping their trunks. It is a brutal but necessary way to begin again. It is a forced rebirth.
As a caterpillar enters its final phase, it carries with her a tiny piece of her new self. A very thin and frail pair of rudimentary wings are rolled up beneath her skin. On the surface she is a caterpillar, but inside she is already plotting a new life. The plans and the pieces are in place, all that is left is the breakdown. As the caterpillar begins to dissolve, she imprints these future wings into the walls of the chrysalis. These wings will be waiting to develop with her when she is ready.
When a butterfly is miraculously in its final form, it faces one last test: emerging. People who have witnessed this often want to “help” the butterfly extract itself from the home it now desperately wants to flee. As is so often true, the best practice here is to let it be. The butterfly must now go through her “rumbling.” A rumbling is the phase where she needs to fight. She needs to use all of her strength and relentlessness to prove she is worthy of flight. This rumbling strengthens her wings and muscles and prepares her for the rather tumultuous world she is entering into. Without this period of struggle, she won’t thrive. In each burst of wild violence from within the chrysalis, a mighty will emerges.
Our kit butterflies eventually completed their rumbling and fluttered against the walls of their enclosure. My son and I carried them outside and held our breath as we slowly removed the lid of the cage. We expected an uprising and a frantic flight to freedom, but instead they stayed close. One of them stayed on the rim of her former home for an hour. My son pressed his face close to her and let her wings tickle his nose. A study at Georgetown University determined that a butterfly can remember experiences it had when it was a caterpillar. That even when faced with being broken down to a small collection of cells, somehow memories carried through. Maybe those memories will be the taste of milkweed on a familiar farm or the smell of smoke in the distance. Or maybe, just maybe, it will be the wide eyes of a child who is seeing true change for the first time.
