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.
Old Soul Medicine Crow 