alchemy

Spring has been showing off this year, authentically owning herself in all her glory. Enough warm days to coax me outside, enough cool days to curtail a full-on summer. A slow and appropriate transition from my hibernation and an ally for my body’s reset. Rather than a Boomer or Gen X, I categorize myself as a Perennial. No matter how hard the winter, it’s time for me to come back to life.

For several months, I’ve been recovering from minor issues that caused major disruptions to my daily digestive functioning. Between brain fog and fatigue, I’ve struggled to complete tasks. Everywhere I look—inside and outside the house—is a job that needs to be done…or is half-done and waiting to be completed. Finally, I feel enough energy and gumption to tackle a real project.

I check my growing list. I am torn between painting the other half of my office and cleaning out more raised beds, both are works in progress. Seventy degrees and sunny with a slight breeze tips the scales toward gardening. On my way to retrieve the tiller, I pass a birdhouse that fell off its post this winter during a heavy snow storm. I make a mental note to add it to my list. I’ve watched bluebirds come and go from this three-compartment complex every spring since I moved in (2012) but now it lies upside down beneath the carport. I’ve been planning its repair since January. I chastise myself for not having the condos move-in ready before spring.

As the day progresses, I successfully transition 4 raised beds from hard-packed weed infested patches to powdery rich soil ready for planting. It feels good to play in dirt and actually energizes me a bit. From another bed, I rescue strawberries from an overgrowth of mint that was never meant to happen. Luckily, strawberries leaf out earlier than mint with roots close to the surface. If it weren’t for the aggressive spreading, mint would make a good companion for strawberries because it helps to repel insects. But once the spearmint emerges, it grows tall and I can’t find the strawberries. This mint has taken over two beds and is threatening the whole garden.

In spite of my frustration with the invader, I hate killing healthy plants. Spearmint is beautiful, aromatic, medicinal and tasty which is why I let it get a stronghold before doing something about it. I love it in iced tea but never again will I plant it in the ground…anywhere. Rookie mistake. This sweet green interloper wasn’t even planted in my garden, on purpose. It was a sleeper cell lying dormant in some rich black topsoil I absentmindedly borrowed from my flower beds against the house.

Mint is almost impossible to kill, especially without commercial poisons. The roots are thick, insidious cords that snake beneath ground surface and create a mat that smothers out all other plants. Before my eradication efforts, which will include digging, removing, and smothering with salt, vinegar and dish detergent, I transplant some pieces into a big pot. Hopefully I can contain it this time. I fill three black garbage bags—33 gallons each—with knotted roots. This year, these beds will sleep beneath a man-made cocoon of thick black plastic, fed with vinegar and salt.

By late afternoon, I find myself energetically surprised and feeling pretty good about my accomplishments. I decide to tackle the birdhouse. Living on land handed down through generations means I am always following the footsteps of my ancestors (and sometimes feel them following me). My father made this tri-plex aluminum condo on a base of plywood. After thirty plus years, the underneath side rotted despite the fact that he wrapped the topside in metal. When he built the house, he placed it on a metal rod in the front yard and planted a small lilac bush at its base. I found an old picture of his proud new installation. Now, the lilac has grown to heights above the house and the birds fly in and out of the middle of the bush. We sometimes trim the bush back but I imagine the birds like the clandestine approach. My job is to chip out the old plywood so Gregg, my companion, can replace it. I move the box to a sidewalk so I can easily sweep up the mess. It looks like broken pieces of shredded wheat.

I look around for a container in which to carry the pieces to our backyard fire pit. As many Amazon deliveries as we get, there is usually a cardboard box lying around somewhere but not today. Under the carport is a recycling bin, practically empty. I lift out two random items and find a butterfly lying open winged at the bottom. I presume it’s dead.

I stare at it, admiring the colors, wondering how it came to die at the bottom of the recycling bin. It moves. “Oh, are you stuck?” I asked. I reach down and lift it out of the bin. It does not try to flutter away from me. A portion of its right forewing has been chewed off, along with a third of its right antennae. “I know how you feel,” I say. “I’ve been feeling a little chewed up myself.” Yes, I talk out loud to creatures great and small, visible and invisible. I decide the butterfly has probably sought refuge from one of the relentless mockingbirds. Could she not muster the strength for a 2 feet vertical lift? Is it chance that I found her? Or divine intervention? I had no idea I would actually get to the birdhouse today after months of seeing it in disrepair. I have never emptied or looked inside the recycling bin as long as it’s been here. That has always been Gregg’s job, but had he emptied it he was not likely to pay attention to a butterfly.

I hold her in the open palm of my hand. She turns to face me, an acknowledgment of our connection. I am always grateful for close encounters with nature and for the random nudges that push me toward them. It lifts my spirit to witness miracles, especially when I can be a part of someone else’s.

My new companion is in no rush to leave my hand. I still don’t know if she can fly or if this is indeed the end for her. I plan to lower her to the ground beneath blades of tiger lilies for a more restful refuge, but first I want to study her. It looks as if someone has taken a tiny spray can of iridescent blue glitter paint and arched a half-moon line across the top of her tail wings. Falling glitter sprinkled like stardust across her remaining black canvas. On her underneath side the artist was simply showing off with splashes of orange dots lining her wings. I gently lower her beneath the canopy, thinking at the very least she can capture an insect for her last supper. Before touching her feet to the earth, she turns one more time to face me, then promptly takes flight and lands in a tree thirty feet away. Such tenacity! Even with a half-chewed wing, she flies! Immediately I feel it. This! This is the message I needed to receive today. The push to come back to life after a backset. Today, I have something in common with a spicebush butterfly, she lifts my spirit and reminds me how to push forward. We are each other’s miracle and I am grateful.

Once, in a philosophic moment, a dear friend posited that maybe the best we can hope for in our otherwise mundane existence is to experience intermittent “gasps of joy” to propel us forward. We need only be alert and grateful when a “gasp of joy” arrives. Helping this butterfly out of the recycling bin brought me joy. Having her sit in my hand, seemingly unafraid, brought me joy. Realizing that our encounter was perfectly timed for each of us brought wonder and awe. It was a late afternoon last minute decision to work on the birdhouse. I could have used a regular trash can for the debris, or a box, or simply swept up the pieces and carried them to the back yard fire pit but I chose the recycling bin where it just so happened an injured butterfly was stranded. Random or guided? I think maybe our lives can be measured by the string of joyful experiences we hold in our hearts. I choose to believe my spirit team is vast and enjoys this playfulness as much as I do.

Alchemy: a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way.

I went to dinner in Lexington with some women. Friends, and friends of friends. Three of them had birthdays in the same month so not only was there reason to celebrate, after dinner we were attending a reading by another friend who was celebrating the release of her latest book. A night out for the ladies.

Since we had gathered primarily for the literary arts, the dinner conversation began with literature. Who recently read what, which books are must reads, what we’re currently writing, and morphed into general story telling since most of us were writers of one form or another. One person’s story reminds someone else of a similar story, reminds another, and so it goes. In this instance, we traveled the world going from Chicago to Milan to New York and all the way back to Kentucky, where we all currently live. One theme that emerged was housing. From tiny squeeze-ins to expansive high-rise sublets to starter homes, the ladies spoke of lucky breaks, exigent circumstances and turning bad situations into good. I saw a theme emerging.

“Alchemy,” I said.

“What’s alchemy?” my friend asked. I explained poorly that it was a term referring to the medieval attempt to turn base metals into gold. But that today it also meant just what she had been saying, how she’d turned a bad situation into a good one.”

Then, “Martha’s” Kentucky story of purchasing a farmhouse without prior knowledge of the den of snakes who had taken up residence beneath the front stoop drew gasps from everyone.

“I’d have to back out of the sale,” one said.

“Or put it right back on the market,” another chimed in. “You didn’t stay there, did you? Is that where you live now?”

The fear of snakes always sparks eeks and cringes followed by other close encounter stories. I’d venture to guess we all have snake stories. These ladies all did. The fear of the serpent is likely the most common phobia. We love to hate these creatures.

I, too, am no fan and prefer not to get personal with a snake. I thought about reminding us all that snake symbolism was originally that of the divine feminine and that maybe we had been conditioned to fear snakes based on the patriarchal need to control the innate power of women. According to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak, seeing a snake denotes resurrection, renewal, rebirth (shedding of one’s skin to become anew). In dreams, simply encountering the snake is thought to be the subconscious awareness of a pending new cycle of life. Being overly afraid of the snake symbolizes fear of the changes necessary for internal growth. Getting bit might symbolize the level of resistance or blocks you’re throwing into your own path. I’ve had plenty of these dreams throughout my spiritual awakening journey as well as in person sightings. An explanation like this might be interesting, but it rarely does much to allay a well-honed fear of snakes. Thinking of the power of transformation, I juxtaposed one of my own snake stories instead.

I am the third generation of my family to inhabit the family farm, in a house that was built in 1901. Dad refurbished the house, mid-seventies. Insulation, Drywall, paneling, popcorn painted ceilings and area rugs turned the place around, even before electricity or plumbing was added. Instead, fireplaces, a Warm Morning stove, outdoor toilet and a rain barrel became our every summer adventure, heading back to a small abode with a thermostat and a real bathtub during the school year. We merrily frolicked at the river’s edge, raised cattle, pigs and chickens, the occasional mule, helped Dad with tobacco, hay, planting and harvesting vegetables, hunted arrowheads, shot BBguns, picked blackberries and maintained a healthy awareness of snakes like we lived in the 19^th century. In his head, my father sort of did. I was having the time of my life. Today, I am grateful for this character-building years-long sojourn into the past. My parents installed plumbing and a few other upgrades and moved into the farmhouse after all of us children were grown, around 1991.

In 2012, due to Mom’s cancer and other circumstances, my father bought a house closer to town and nearer to doctors and the hospital. The farm is isolated with sometimes inaccessible country roads. Since I was freshly divorced, he convinced me to take up residency on the farm so that the empty house would not get vandalized or become a drug den.

In the seventies, Dad didn’t believe in the future of electricity or otherwise could not envision the number of useless appliances the next generation would find not only convenient but necessary. He felt ahead of his time including two whole outlets per room. Re-learning how to live in an old house whose electricity has not been modernized to meet today’s standards and whose prior inhabitants had learned how to “make things work” without actually having them repaired, included several “combinations” of actions I needed to learn to keep the house running smoothly. Namely, deciphering the tangled web of which outlets in how many rooms, both upstairs and down, whose wiring led to the same 15-amp fuse. I should have bought stock in Buse fuses for the number of boxes I purchased and went through in those early months, grateful they still existed.

Another thing he made sure to tell me was about the relationship he had formed with a huge black rat snake that lived in the shed out back. As I’ve indicated, snakes aren’t even my favorite subject, but out of reverence to my father, I listened to his tutorial.

“You know I store feed in that building, for the cattle. Mice get in it and make a big mess. That big snake keeps the mice and rat population down so I like him being in there. He’s not poisonous and he never bothers me. When I go into the shed to retrieve the lawn mower I talk to him, warn him I’m coming in. He may be hanging from a rafter or laying on the ground someplace. I pull the riding mower out and start it up. When he hears the engine, he comes out and makes his way down toward the pond. I guess he’s getting a drink. I don’t see him again until after I’ve finished cutting grass. Later in the evening, when it’s quiet, I can sometimes see him returning to the building. We’ve been doing this for years. We made a deal.”

“Okay,” I tell him, “I can live with that.” Even though secretly I thought, okay then, I’m not going in that shed, which turned out to be impossible. So, I did indeed follow in my father’s footsteps and tried my hand at snake whispering, which might or might not sound more like clanging and banging and yelling warnings rather than actual whispers. I named the snake, Earl.

Dad cut more grass than the immediate area around the house. He had cleared and tamed almost an acre of land, to keep the snakes at bay, he’d said, even though he made exception for Earl. He thought it wise to claim territory separate from the wilder fields and fence rows that bordered the woodland’s edge to provide a clear view of encroaching wildlife. He advised me to do the same. But since he took his riding mower with him to the new house and I still only had a push mower, I hired a neighbor to keep my lawn tidy. I told him the snake story and asked if he could please respect my father’s wishes and look out for Earl. “It’s been there for years,” I tell him. “It doesn’t want to harm anyone.”

Vernon was on the lookout for Earl, no doubt. His first encounter with Dad’s rat snake shocked them both. He entered the shed looking for a weed eater. The lanky sentry hung from a rafter at eye level as he entered, probably wondering who the hell this guy thinks he is entering Herbert Crow’s field mouse buffet. After that, unbeknownst to me, Vernon began strapping on a sidearm before arriving to mow the grass.

After a month or two of cutting the grass with no further incidents I thought all was well. However, one day, Vernon gave in to his own fears and ignored my sentiment about the friendly cohabitant of my abode. He knocked on my door, and using a hoe to extend his reach and not actually touch the old guy, held out his conquered prey to me the way my dogs string out a dead rabbit on my doorstep…as a gift.

“That’s Earl,” I say, confused.

“Don’t worry, I got him,” Vernon said. “I hate me a snake. That’s why I carry this.” He proudly pointed to his waist band where he’d holstered the offending weapon. The story he told was just as my father had described, the snake heard the mower and came out of the building to head down to the pond, minding his own business. Only Vernon didn’t care where he was going. Seeing the snake, he chased it down with his lawn tractor, close enough to get a good shot with his pistol because he sure as hell wasn’t going to get off that mower and possibly get bit. He also wasn’t going to let it out of his sight for fear of where it might go…and…he didn’t want to miss. Poor Earl had made it all the way to the fence row, about to cross the threshold to safety before he felt the blow. Vernon was proud.

My father had warned me about the snake we’d named Earl. But we both failed to warn Earl about the viper named Vernon.

“Oh, that’s so sad,” said the lady who would have instantly sold Martha’s den-of-snakes’ house.

“I can’t believe he did that!” said another. “Did you let him keep mowing your lawn after that?”

“Do you hear how you have all changed your attitudes from loathing to compassion and concern for a snake?” I ask, “Now, that’s alchemy.”

Category: alchemy

Lessons from a Spicebush Butterfly