The butterfly counts not months, but moments, and has time enough. – Rabindranath Tagore
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from gardening, it’s that Mother Nature has her own rhythms. Mystifying and maddening though it might sometimes be, there’s an underlying order.
Why, for instance, is this Monarch caterpillar doing sit-ups on the milkweed leaf? No idea. Sassy little thing, though, isn’t she? If all goes well, she’ll shed her beautiful skin a couple more times, and then transform herself into a chrysalis.
Maybe one day, she’ll join the ranks of HRH, Mr. Monarch, who eclosed before our very eyes, just about this time last year.
I’m less inclined, this year than last, to fret when things go “wrong.” It’s a subtle shift–a metamorphosis, if you will–to see yourself as an invited guest at Mother Nature’s garden party.
Speaking of which: Cool cats that they are, 4th and 5th instar caterpillars are very much attuned to the world beyond milkweed plants that fuel them. By the time they’ve reached this stage,they’ve made least four wardrobe changes, shedding their skins as they grow. Cooler still, they swivel their heads in the direction of distinctive voices and loud music. Here’s what happened when I got close enough to say hello.
I’m learning as I go, and I cop to my share of mistakes. (I put just-perfect plants in altogether wrong spots, for instance; and I can’t get my First Love gardenia to love me back.) But I’m working very hard to create a garden that provides shelter and sustenance to winged creatures and wildlife, a beautiful respite for all.
I admire from a distance, zoom close with my camera. But when vulnerable creatures wander off into dangerous territory, as this tiny caterpillar did–flinging itself onto the hard, hot concrete, at least three feet below the plant pot)–I scoop them into a leafy cradle and return them to safety.
I’m planting the seeds of my own awareness…releasing expectations and accepting with joy the gifts available to me in this moment, in this place. Life lessons, learned best in Mother Nature’s classroom.
It’s a relief, actually, to let Mother Nature be the guardian of my secret garden.
Sure, the temptation’s there, and probably always will be: I want to run interference, to protect these treasures from harm. But as Eric said to me just yesterday, “You’re not Mother Nature, you’re Melodye. He’s a wise one, too, my husband.
Whether or not they supported the counter-protest (or read my takeaways from that event), a handful of people expressed real concerns about my having attended the KKK rally in Anaheim. Some talked to me privately; still others confronted me outright. What on earth were you thinking? It seems so out of character, they said.
I disagreed. It’s all of a piece, I said, and I invited them to look a little deeper. I’ll answer those questions here (as often as you’d like…), if you’ll permit me to come at them sideways.
We are multi-faceted beings, every one of us. I’m captivated by Mother Nature’s most exquisite creations, but–and–I also have within my heart an innate desire to cradle “the least of them,” within and beyond my own garden gates.
I watch hummingbirds out my kitchen window every morning, see them wage fierce battles mid-air, iridescent wings shimmering in the afternoon sun as they chase away intruders. Inspired by their courage, I run outside, flailing my arms as I shout, “Shoo! Go away!” to the murder of crows on the neighboring hillside.
I’m swept away by a robin’s song, and I carry within my heart an anthem: Cheer cheer, cheerily, cheer up…change is gonna come.
I twist the lens until the mourning dove comes into focus, and use Lightroom to scrub the poop plops on the fence. It’s more pleasant that way, don’t you think?
When the water shortage deepened, we replaced our backyard sod with drought-friendly flowers, all of which attract butterflies, honeybees, and songbirds. It’s a small space, and our switchover to drip irrigation isn’t going to refill the aquifers. But it helps prevent runoff from polluting our ocean, and it’s more than enough to fill the birdbaths again every morning.
Between the lavender and penstemon, we’ve planted this sign. It’s an honor to be designated as a Monarch Waystation, in recognition of the work we’re doing to help support the earth and her inhabitants. Bare minimum, it’s a conversation piece. Each one, teach one. We learn from each other.
Exactly one week after the KKK rally, I plant milkweed seeds with my little friend Sara. It’s in short supply now, due to overzealous pesticide applications and misguided/misinformed land management practices. The consequences are devastating: Since milkweed’s the sole food source for monarch caterpillars, and the only plant on which monarch butterflies lays its egg, the monarch population has plummeted. We’re doing our part to help save these winged beauties from the threat of extinction.
I know from experience (and the parable of the sower) that the things we sow don’t always take root and grow. Even so, as we tuck tiny seeds into peat pockets, I say a silent benediction: Let hope be renewed, and peace be restored, within our own hearts and the habitats we share. And I remember, then as always, the African proverb: “When you pray, move your feet.”
Long answer made short?
This is how it feels to work together on behalf of something bigger than ourselves–something that has potentially positive effects, on our own lives and that of future generations.
In the gauzy hour before sunrise, our shuttle pulls into the circular driveway of Ronald Reagan Medical Center. Streetlamps twinkle on shiny poles, and polished travertine gleams in our headlights. My husband collects his pre-op instructions; I give his hand a gentle squeeze. Sirens wail. Paramedics lower a gurney from an ambulance, and the hospital doors whoosh open, bathing everyone in light.
Hollywood-style glitz, more often associated with its namesake than your typical hospital
Here, staff members treat surgical patients with the same accord as trauma patients, who get the same level of care as celebrities who roll up to the entrance in chauffer-driven Bentleys. Stretched by limited space and overwhelming demand, staff members nevertheless find a way to share a deep appreciation for the human beings that occupy their beds. “What’s your story?” finds its harmony in the oft-repeated, “How can I help you?”
Several hours later, I find myself pacing the length of the recovery unit. A grizzled man clings to an IV pole, winces as he shuffles past me, pivots, and matches his steps to mine. “Way to go,” I say, and he gives me a wan smile.
“I was born in the original UCLA hospital,” I say.
“Don’t date yourself,” he warns.
We walk together in silence, but before long, he’s describing for me a harrowing tour of duty in Vietnam. He’d signed up for the military after high school—same as his daddy, and his granddaddy before him. But while he didn’t expect a hero’s welcome when he returned home as a decorated paratrooper, neither did he expect to be pelted with glass bottles, verbal expletives, and spit. He shrugs, scratches the tattoos that span the length of his arms, says his heart transplant was probably caused by stress. But he is quick to reassure me that the protesters hadn’t broken his spirit. He is proud of his children, and several grandchildren look up to him, now.
We linger in my husband’s doorway, talking softly while he emerges from his anesthesia haze. A nurse swoops in, repositions the cotton gown around his shoulders, offers him water, and fluffs his pillows. Eric opens his eyes, gives me a weak smile that says, roughly translated: “I love you. We made it.”
They are worlds apart, my husband and this wounded veteran. Their paths converged in this hospital because of health concerns, nothing more. Their prognoses are good. They have everything in the world to live for, and they know it.
Believe it or not, the same can be said for the people who huddle inside these temporary quarters, parallel-parked on a road less travelled.
You’ve perhaps seen this kind of encampment on your way to work: a derelict dwelling that afflicts the comfortable. Most people avert their eyes as they hurry past…but I don’t.
What I’m about to tell you might come as a surprise to some, given that I most often blog about hummingbirds and butterflies, wonders of nature and writerly stuff.
As the daughter of an itinerant preacher, I’m intimately familiar with the musky odors of makeshift quarters like these. I’ve experienced poverty so severe that it creeps into your psyche, have endured hunger pangs so severe that they feel like a shank to the belly. I spent a good portion of my childhood in the margins, wholly dependent on the kindnesses of strangers. Despite–or maybe because of all this–I cling to the comforting words of my Nana: “In the darkest nights of winter, watch the skies and listen for the robins.”
Nana taught me to lean in the direction of things that are “lovely, honest, and true,” to believe, without wavering, that “joy cometh in the morning.” She never stood in the pulpit, but by her example, I learned the simple elegance of the Golden Rule. It’s the gold standard, when it comes to taking the measure of your life.
I’m not afraid to venture into neighborhoods best known for crumbling sidewalks, ghost signs and hazard cones, and curbs so steeped in garbage that you turn your ankle when you step into the street against the light. Call me reckless if you will, but I’m not afraid to venture into darkness to serve “the least of these.” I love the whirr of iridescent wings, but this is the pulse of my life.
Rarely has any of this made its way into my blog–not explicitly, anyway–for reasons I’d rather not go into right now. Mary Oliver once said: “Write for whatever holy things you believe in.” I’ve always done that, sometimes in broader strokes than others. But the events of this past weekend have inspired me to put a finer point on things this morning.
All that to say: when I sprinkle candies over a swirl of frozen yogurt (to celebrate my husband’s homecoming), I also toss a large wedge of gourmet Swiss cheese into the grocery cart. An impulse buy, for total strangers.
I keep a respectful distance, smiled as I peer into the shadows. “Hi, my name is Melodye,” I say, “Do either of you like cheese?”
Four hands, light and dark, stretch beyond the portal of the tent. A wordless answer, easily translated.
We exchange names, share a few pleasantries, and then I retreat to the warmth of my car. New friendships need oxygen, and grace.
In Inky and Starr’s mirrored sunglasses, I see reflections of our shared humanity.
Storm clouds cover the sun with a wooly-gray blanket. Heavy winds lift the edges of the tarp. My husband’s discharge process takes longer than expected, and as I tap-tap-tap my fingers on the steering wheel, my heart tugs me in the direction of their curbside home. Again. I cut the engine, shove my keys into my purse, grab my camera, and cross the street.
“May I sit with you for a while?” I ask. The answer is yes!
We warm ourselves around a makeshift grill, spin yarns about our childhoods, and muse about the events that brought us all together. They’d met two years ago, Starr tells me, at a bus stop in Hollywood. Inky gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze, “I’ve been looking for her for all my life,” he says, “and we’ll be together for always.”
“Would you mind if I take your picture?” I ask. “And maybe take a short video, so I can share your story with my friends?”
Inky flings his arms open, fingers splayed, and flashes an open-mouthed grin. “Sure,” he says. Starr nods, with no hesitation whatsoever. So I switch my camera to video mode, and press the shutter button. The result is this unedited clip–not inclusive of everything we covered in our earlier conversation, but enough for you to get better acquainted. Roll straight through to the end, and you might learn something new about me, too. I’ve never fielded this question publicly, but his curiosity was genuine, and disarming…
Call them serendipitous, call them happenstance or good luck. But the truth is, these seemingly random encounters occur more often than anyone (aside from my closest friends and family members) might guess. My husband calls them “a Melodye thing.” I call them shivery magic–miracles that come of flinging your heart’s door wide open, and basking in the light.
When we stopped by last Saturday, Leslie Gibson was pruning her butterfly garden, pausing now and again to introduce her Monarch caterpillars to curious passersby. A former puppeteer and special education teacher, it was this gentle but intrepid woman who led the charge to restore Huntington Beach’s Gibbs Park to its former beauty, and to reimagine it as a Monarch Waystation and overwintering site.
“Our Monarchs are hanging out in Central Park Library Amphitheater this year,” Leslie told us when we visited. A handful of butterfly scouts hovered around Gibbs Park earlier in the fall, but they found the grove less hospitable than in previous years, given a tree-trimming crew had removed their sheltering branches.
We were glad for Leslie’s tip–happy, too to find ourselves among nature lovers of all ages. Such a rare and magical experience, to see this final stage of a butterfly’s metamorphosis in progress! We raised and answered questions amongst ourselves, and snapped lots of photos. And yes, we were also transformed, each in our own ways, by the miracles we’d witnessed.
For instance: When Monarchs undergo their egg-to-butterfly metamorphosis someplace West of the Rockies, they tend to overwinter along the California coast. Their migration patterns lead them to standing groves of eucalyptus trees, Monterey pines and cypress. Unless you know where to look, you might not see them–with their colorful orange wings folded inward, they’re well camouflaged by variegated tree bark and pointed leaves. In fact, we served as ad hoc docents on more than one occasion, pointing out the butterfly clusters to those who happened upon the eucalyptus grove during a serendipitous walk through the park.
Overwintering Monarchs are typically sluggish, as you can easily see in the picture below. Their inactivity serves as camouflage in this, more vulnerable state.
But when the sun comes out, they unfurl their wings and gradually drift away from the cluster, like flower petals in the breeze.
Subtle flutterings that eventually become a riot of color.
A magic trick of the highest order, it carries your breath away.
In the lower branches, we saw a handful of butterflies that sported a Monarch Alert tag. Such was the case with this lovely specimen, released just yesterday by a charming little girl for whom raising the Monarch population is an ongoing backyard project.
Three to five generations of Monarch butterflies are born every spring and summer. Most will survive for just a few weeks. Some of you might remember that I was lucky enough to record this metamorphosis in real time, in my own backyard.
This last generation of 2015 will live upwards of 8 months. They typically mate in early spring, when the life cycle begins anew.
I’d like to think that “my” Monarchs found themselves among the group that migrates to overwintering sites in California and Mexico. In any case, I feel privileged to have witnessed firsthand this magical phenomenon, nearby and easily accessible!
El Niño’s going to be dropping some serious rain this week, so the Monarchs will probably hunker down. Or hang loose, as some locals might say. (This is Surf City, USA we’re talking about, after all….) I’ll wait out the storms, same as the Monarchs, but when the sun reappears, I’ll make my way back to the eucalyptus groves, and to the Butterfly garden in Gibbs Park. If it’s not too far to travel, I hope see you there!
Another turn of the calendar page, and here we are, standing at the threshold of 2016. We had a quiet celebration, here at Chez Shore. No fireworks, no champagne flutes at midnight…we just reveled in each other’s company, and that of longtime friends. After dinner, we hiked to a beautiful vantage point, not far from our home. We watched in awe as the sun extinguished its fire in the Pacific Ocean, but not before putting its final punctuation mark on the year.
I’ve been reflecting today on the highlights of 2015, while also imagining the possibilities for 2016. No, I’m not planning to write a formal list of New Year’s resolutions–an illustrated journal page is more my style. In 2015, for instance, I created a collage of sorts for the word SUSTAIN, a multi-faceted theme that I oftentimes referenced.
I haven’t yet settled on a word for this year, but from my 2015 catalog of pictures and blogs, I pulled together a brief retrospective. Here, some of the myriad people and events that sustained me last year. I invite you to revisit those special moments with me, and to consider how we might respond this year to Mary Oliver’s question:
His Holiness, XIV Dalai Lama talks about compassion, on the occasion of his 80th Birthday Celebration (July)
With your one…
Leaf-peeping in history-steeped New England, and the singularly successful book launch of Jeannine Atkins’ LITTLE WOMAN IN BLUE, a novel about May Alcott (October)
Wild…
A well-nourished leopard guards his “prey,” at the Exotic Feline Breeding Compound and Conservation Center (April)
And precious…
This ray of sunshine, also known as my grandson (August)
Life?
A backyard metamorphosis, from caterpillar to chrysalis to winged beauty (June)
Wishing you a joyful 2016, in which your relationships nurture and inspire you, and every day’s a grand adventure.
(Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? was excerpted from Mary Oliver’s hugely popular poem, A Summer Day. )
We delight in the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty–Maya Angelou
I posted most of these photographs to my Facebook page, in real time, but it seems to me a miracle this grand deserves an encore performance. Enjoy!
April 1st. A Monarch butterfly visits the milkweed plant that I’ve tucked into a container garden, alongside a fuchsia.
April 27. I missed the egg stage altogether, but look! A Monarch caterpillar is munching the milkweed plant that its mother visited a few weeks back.
When I first discovered it, the very hungry caterpillar was inching its way across my backyard patio, having just discarded its skin. Ever the hovercraft watchful mama, I supervised my husband as he scooped up the butterfly-to-be with gentle hands and nestled it into soil at the base of the milkweed. Nimble little thing, it climbed to the topmost branch and started nibbling.
May 29. Cirque de Caterpillar! The J shape signals its readiness for the next phase of metamorphosis. In this photograph, it’s creating a silk pad on the underside of the fuchsia leaf, after which it’ll connect its hook-like appendage (cremaster) to the pad and twist about–an aerobatic hokey-pokey that helps ensure the cremaster is firmly attached.
Sheer magic! The caterpillar sheds its skin one last time, revealing its fragile beauty. The chrysalis hardens and dries overnight, and by daybreak, it’s transformed itself into a beautiful jade pendant, with a gold band around the top and gold flecks near the bottom.
May 30. Royal Baby Watch begins! In 9-14 days, on average, the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly will be complete. The green turns more opaque, and the golden ‘necklace’ is more pronounced. See how the tiny beads sparkle in the sunlight? Although entomologists have hypothesized about their purpose, they haven’t yet settled on an answer. Beauty sometimes exists for its own sake, am I right?
June 12. Although it’s now 3 days beyond the normal hatching period, I’m reminding myself that the transformation is sometimes delayed by cooler weather. Only 1% of Monarchs survive every stage of the egg-caterpillar-chrysallis-butterfly cycle. Grim statistics, but I’m wearing my rose-colored glasses.
June 17. Well,would you look at that! Our Monarch is a full week overdue for eclosing (“hatching”), but it looks as if its royal debut is imminent! The chrysalis turned dark green this morning, and the walls are thinning. By nightfall, barely visible but unmistakable…Monarch butterfly wings.
June 18. I’m up at dawn, so I don’t miss anything. The chrysalis is nearly black now, but pressed against the sides as they are, the wings look like stained glass windows. I take take the full measure of the chrysalis, double-check my camera equipment, and readjust my tripod.
June 18, 10:45 a.m. The chrysalis is inky black, but fully transparent, and you can see breaks along the bottom.
Cracks develop along the backside first, where the wings overlap.
June 18, approximately 11:45. Within the space of about a minute, the bottom of the chrysalis bursts open and the butterfly emerges, head first. He unfurls those gorgeous wings, climbs the nearest leaf, and rests there for about an hour. He’s helpless at this stage, given that his wings are wet, but never fear! I’m keeping an eye out for potential predators.
The emptied chrysalis is the best of form and function–truly, a work of art.
When an ocean breeze drifts through the backyard. His Royal Majesty seems to enjoy it. He turns his head from side to side, spreads and retracts his wings, clings to a fuchsia branch and wiggles his antenna.
About two hours later, he gets the urge the fly. Rough going, at first. He careens around the flowerpot. Flutter. Flap. A running start, then wheeee, he takes to the skies!
(My video’s too large to post, but you can watch his inaugural flight at this link).
The Monarch lands on the sweet pea butterfly bush at the edge of our flowerbed. He assumes elegant poses, as if to indulge this paparazzo’s fascination. My camera’s battery runs out before his patience.
The sun is directly overhead when he takes off again–flawless wings, gliding across an impossibly blue sky. I am at once wistful and ecstatic, and grateful for the opportunity to witness this metamorphosis.
Oh, and I’m happy to report that Monarch butterfly returned to my garden again this morning. I’ll be watching for tiny eggs in my milkweed plant…
UPDATE: After reading more about Monarchs this morning, I’ve changed the gender references in this post. The black pouches and thin veining on the hind wings help identify this beautiful specimen as a male. (source).
