For as many years as the butterfly exhibit has made its Spring appearance here, not until this year had I taken it in. Not that I didn’t think I would enjoy it. I am rather in to bugs. Ask my parents and sisters. I’m sure they could provide the world with great blog content for some time.
I loved the butterflies, of course, with all their color and flitting and all. But, as in all things, I enjoyed viewing the greater scene, as if a play on stage. The tall and spacious greenhouse-made-rain forest was misty and warm, well-suited for bamboos and butterflies. Meandering. There was a lot of meandering. Folks going no where in particular. Neck craned and extended. Eyes up and out, never down. Hands stretched outward, hoping Mr. Emperor Swallowtail would mutually consent in ignoring the “no touching” signs.
I caught myself hanging out by the pupae for a long time, just watching them hang there. A few were actively emerging, though it was a long ordeal. Most were just hanging there; their own emergence into adulthood held off for a better day, perhaps tomorrow.
There was no rushing this day. Visitors weren’t checking their smart-phones. The butterflies, no agenda except to please. And those butterflies-to-be seemed in no hurry to get on with it. No hurry to impress. Are there lessons here for me?
I think yes. I must chill out and allow maturation and emergence its due time. This is not without its angst, mind you. I would love to help chicks hatch and seeds push up the earth that covers them. But I must continually remind myself that the journey... the painful, struggling journey is what makes emergence all that much more glorious.