Endings and Beginnings

I watched a late instar caterpillar make its way up a empty branch, the left over defoliated stem of a sunflower eaten to death by the grasshoppers. Good that they did that; it gave a clear path for the caterpillar to make its last crawl up high – a safe location for its transformation. I noticed its head move back and forth, left to right, over and over. A pad of sticky silk getting bigger and bigger. It went about its business like a master weaver – looming, spreading, and then finally creating this foundation for its next stage.

Once the pad was big enough, the caterpillar moved up, twisted around, then down to reverse itself and put its back side into the pad of silk -its crucial last connection to the terrestrial world of plants and stems, leaves broad and narrow. Still clinging to the empty woody stem, it tested its adhesion. The caterpillar seemed to freeze for a while, its beautiful black, yellow and white striped body soft and stuck. The only movement was the light wind blowing the caterpillar’s long black antennae. Birds flew by, chirped, a truck drove by on the dirt road – all oblivious to this one creature’s major moment in life – an end to a beginning. Then, in an instant, it released itself, a final act of resolution, knowing that the only path is forward, a journey to something so radically different.

I don’t know why, but I felt solemn. I wondered if it had a sense that life, as it knew it, was over. I have seen these transitions before. A child who is fearful of the deep end and makes the decision to just jump. A beloved family member who gets the news that there is nothing more that can be done. A dying person whose life force exits as the body begins to shut down. In all cases, life is transformed. Resolve to resignation to relief – then – a breath, and…release.

It is no wonder my Yoeme people and other Indigenous relatives revere monarchs. Their life, transformation and return seen as the spirits of our ancestors who themselves had lives, transformations and now return. The cycle repeats, even as it is interrupted by poisons and habitat loss, the spirit still returns.

I sit there for an hour, in the garden, with mean ol’ ants crawling up my legs, me brushing them away before they can bite. I don’t want to kill them; I am sitting on top of their home. They are oblivious as well to what I feel is a monumental moment. I must watch. I need to hold vigil, to acknowledge, honor and admire this release, this compliance with the inevitable. Now the caterpillar is shifting to its “J” formation. This takes a while. After another hour, the “J” is static, the body stiffens. It swings gently in the breeze waiting for the last of its beautiful striped skin to fall off and reveal its chrysalis where it will be liquefied then reborn.

It is dark now. I have been sitting there for hours. The ants have finally gone to bed; my husband has finally given up trying to get me into the house, and I can fully focus. I feel a vibration deep inside my torso. At first it trickles, then it is louder, my mouth opening wider for the sound waves to move. I am singing. It is involuntary. This transformation must be honored. No matter the size, this life is important. This caterpillar is my relation. We are all related.

Tui tukaria in hala’i. Good night my friend.