Monarch chrysalis – Heather Bernikoff

Midwife to Monarchs

The last of the monarchs left yesterday. They are born, dry-off, test their wings and then fly away. Green to black to orange, black and white – there is now no color save yellow – yellow grass, yellow tarweed, yellow sunflowers, yellow creek flowers. Yellow is the Fall, a time of maturity, a time of harvest, filling us like a cornucopia. I harvest joy, not crops, from knowing that something as remarkable as a butterfly can exist. My project has matured attracting monarchs at their journey beginning and ending. I have witnessed flights, egg laying, caterpillars large and small, silk spinning, “J” making, chrysalises and births to flights again. I am full. Fall has filled me.

In my life, I never thought I would be a midwife to monarchs. In truth, they don’t need me. They’ve been doing their thing and surviving well without me. Unimpressed with that knowledge, I monitored them daily to ensure their chrysalises were there, their foundations were intact, and that everything was a-ok. When they were born, I watched them even closer to make sure they were able to gain a strong footing.

Glad I was there; monarch #2, the closest chrysalis to the ground, did not have as much space between the tank to which its chrysalis was attached and the retaining wall adjacent to the tank. She rolled out of her chrysalis, then latched to it, then a move to more solid footing, and she fell. I watched her thinking she would find footing, but the space was small and the dried grass too short and flimsy. There she wiggled on her side trying to gain purchase on something, legs grasping at the air hoping to find something to cling to. Quickly, I broke off a stem from a dead sunflower and carefully held it to her, close in her vicinity, but not near her delicate, still wet wings. I did not want to chance an error. She grabbed on, and I hoisted her carefully in the air allowing her to hang her wings toward the ground so they could unfurl, expand and become strong for her impending journey. I was captivated. After my brain was released from the haze of wonder at this magnificent creature only inches from me, I realized that I now “owned” this lifeline I threw for the 3 to 4 hours it takes for the wings to dry. Didn’t think of that when I jumped to the rescue. I stood there, holding this stick with a glistening jewel at its end, contemplating what I could do to ensure her safety, and my relief. I tried to encourage her to step onto the larger dead stick of the sunflower remains. She wouldn’t have it. Fortunately, there was a soil-filled container with moist dirt that made it easy, yet sturdy, for me to plant the stick in, slowly, carefully. It worked. We both were secure.

In total, there were 11 confirmed chrysalises and caterpillars, with some other surprise monarchs I found drying off. If I add in the surprise monarchs, it brings the total to 14.

I tried to watch every birth, learning new things every time, like seeing how the chrysalis elongates two days before birth, the black color the day of birth, and the colors visible minutes before birth. I became a pro, yelling to whomever was around, usually David who was long since over all of this, “It’s going to blow!” David responding, “Cool,” and going about his business – if saying anything at all.

Gorgeous black – the caterpillars body in a transparent case

It never gets old watching the birth of a butterfly. It is a miracle every time. My friend Francisca was over one day when a chrysalis was about to open. She watched, excited like me, camera in hand, at the miracle before us. It is so nice to share this with people who care. The monarchs are great ambassadors.

At the end of the day yesterday, I watched as my final charge alighted. She circled around me well above my head, flitted here, flitted there, then flew off to the south where eventually she will make a turn toward the coast. I worry less about these babies; there is considerable habitat along her route – thanks to a clarion call for “all hands on deck” in planting milkweed and nectar plants from many organizations and individuals. It is your work, your compassion, your money donation turned to milkweed that will keep her path safer than it would have been only two years ago. The route is not without danger – cars, dragonflies, birds, pesticides, condos and golf courses instead of habitat – but there is much more habitat than there was. Thank you reader. Truly, thank you.

Oh good friend, fly high and safe. You will make it to the coast, and I will see you next year in this milkweed patch. Lay your eggs. As you transition your knowledge to the next generation of where you were born and where the good flowers are, feel secure that I will be here, taking care of your children then.

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.

A Beautiful Sculpture in the Garden

This is a very short post to share what I found in the garden. For those who don’t know what they are looking at, this is a monarch chrysalis. The identifying features are:

1. the jade like color, which is the amorphous goo of the caterpillar body liquefying and turning into a butterfly. The chrysalis is actually clear in color.

2. the yellow, pearl-like dots near the top, and

3. the large size. The monarch is among the largest butterflies in North America.

It is attached to the branch of this primrose by a silk web that the caterpillar creates specific for this purpose.

How did I miss signs and sights of caterpillars? I have been looking at the milkweed almost daily for signs of eating since the adult monarch laid her eggs. I have seen nothing. Evidently, someone survived. The monarchs are so mysterious, so difficult to find. That is a good thing though. The ability to exist hidden gives them even more tools for survival.

I am so ecstatic. The monarchs are here. They are surviving here. The habitat Maala Bwia (Mother Earth) brought back to this land, with the help of me and many, many wonderful people, is working. It is helping provide more food, roosting and nesting options for monarchs as they make their iconic migration across the west. Chiokoe uttesia te hahamevu in arapo bwe’u baise’eboli. Thank you big butterfly for coming to my home. Se enchi nake. I appreciate you.