Have you ever witnessed a miracle? I've witnessed a few myself. The birth of a child, the growth of a plant from a seed, a man literally walk away alive, without a scratch, from a semi-truck accident when I was certain there would be no survivors, a piece of art move a grown person to tears.
Last Monday, during The Sprouted Acorn Cottage School's art class, one of the art mothers was telling us about another miracle that they had witnessed--watching the development of Monarch butterflies. I'd heard of this before, people raising caterpillars into butterflies, but had never taken the time to investigate. I knew that Monarchs liked milkweed, but I didn't know what time of the year to look or what kind of caterpillar we were seeking. Furthermore, I didn't want to take a precious being out of its natural environment, stick it in a jar, forget about it, and then feel personally responsible for the murder of a miracle. I listened to this mother's story and tried to live vicariously through her daughters' passion, watching with interest their animated hand movements and wide-eyed descriptions of the stages of Monarch metamorphosis and the magic of releasing the beautiful creature into the big, blue sky.
After the class was over, after I'd said goodbye to the last person (and about fifteen minutes before my father would attempt to leave for his daily bike ride, instead running over our beloved bassett hound), Loreen returned to our house with her three daughters, bursting with excitement and holding stalks of milkweed in their hands, fragile black, white and yellow caterpillars barely visible on their leaves. They told us how there was a whole gob of milkweed growing along the side of our road and that they discovered more Monarch caterpillars than they'd ever found before. Enough to give caterpillars to each of the art families! After a few minutes of instruction on how to keep the teeny tiny, barely visible, extremely fragile caterpillars alive, we gushed our thanks and waved goodbye.
The rest of the day didn't go so well. After the turmoil, I'd all but forgotten about the caterpillars. We have various and sundry creatures in our care right now: a female praying mantis who has made time with and a quick meal of her mate; a female one-eyed chameleon who needs a fresh supply of mealworms each day; a dresser drawer full of mealworms for said chameleon; three Ohio water turtles, red-eared, I think, who were given to us by a Freecycler; three dogs (where once there were four); a half-dozen cats; a one-horned Saanen goat; 25 chicks in various colors; a white finch and a blue parakeet. Luckily for me and for them, the caterpillars knew how to care for themselves. After only a few days, they had doubled in size and had chewed through 1/3 of their milkweed supply.
In less than a week, before the next art class, those barely visible caterpillars had devoured all of their milkweed and made short work of the second batch we'd provided. They were no longer barely visible, but were now the size of my pinky finger! I watched for the tell-tale signs Loreen had given me; they'll stop eating and start circling the jar looking for a place to hang out for a while.
One week after we'd first acquired the little critters, at the next art class, the largest of the bunch began pacing back and forth on the underside of the jar lid, leaving a thin layer of silky threads behind. By afternoon, it had attached itself to the underside of the lid and was hanging in the shape of a "J." A bit of research told me that it was going into its prepupal state.
And then this morning, Sweetheart noticed that there was a crack in the skin near the head of the upside-down caterpillar revealing a bright green goo. A quick search on the good ol' internet told me that it would be mere minutes before the caterpillar would wriggle out of its skin for the last time and become a chrysalis.
Sweetheart and I gathered the kids around, except for Houdin who is at Space Camp today. We watched that caterpillar wriggle and squirm, watched his skin split more and more, and watched, completely amazed and fighting for front-row seats, as he scootched that skin to the top of the jar, which would be his bottom, hooked his cremaster into the silk pad above it, and shed its caterpillar skin one last time.
And there, hanging before us, was a jade-green miracle. We all saw it. I called Loreen excitedly and told her about our amazing experience.
This is what I love about our new venture, The Sprouted Acorn. I've come away with so much knowledge already, learned so much about other people and their passions. I've discovered oh-so-much more than art in our art classes. There have been lessons in patience, compassion, stewardship, empathy, and, yes, I've even witnessed miracles. Not just the miracle of a caterpillar turning into a chrysalis, but the incredible event of a child walking in as a student and emerging as an artist, a man resisting the call to be a teacher and blossoming as a mentor, and families who have the common interest of learning together making the move to become friends.
As the first chrysalis hardens, another caterpillar circles the jar, looking for a place to hang out for a while.
The miracles never end.
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