“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me
happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s
something stronger—something better, pushing right back.” —Albert Camus
The first time I had COVID was in September 2023. To distract myself from the fiery throat
burning, numbing fatigue and fear of death, I sat on my porch and watched the business of
nature.
Above my head was an active wasp nest. They took daily delicate strolls across the rosy crowns
of sedum. I’d planted milkweed to help out the Monarch butterflies, and I saw them often.
They’d float down to a milkweed leaf and squirm a little, depositing eggs. I inspected the
milkweed daily. The eggs became tiny green caterpillars who then turned yellow and black,
plumped from gorging on milkweed. And then they would disappear. I never saw a chrysalis.
As I stood adoring the one caterpillar that remained, a wasp flew right into it, ramming it off the
leaf. I thought maybe this was an accident. I saw where the caterpillar landed and planned to set it back onto the leaf as soon as the wasp left. But the wasp hunted it, going first back to the leaf, then dropping in a nearby pot searching, then flew into the pot where the caterpillar lay. The wasp landed on it and stung it over and over as the caterpillar contorted. I turned away, horrified. A punch to the gut delivered by the business of nature.
The circle of life had taken a dark turn, and I wasn’t up for it. I couldn’t help but feel responsible
not just for the caterpillar killed in front of me, but all the others who had possibly died the same
way. I enticed the butterflies here by supplying the food they had to have, and then I had wasps
on the ready to eat them.
I wallowed in remorse for a day and then something inside me shifted. It clearly said, “Screw
this.” The wasps I could accept, but not my helplessness. So, I acted. When the next caterpillar
appeared in October, I was ready with mesh netting and a portable tent.
We had a beautiful fall; adult Monarchs came by often. I checked the leaves of the milkweed
every day. Finally, after a month, I saw a caterpillar and I sprang into action, wrapping the plant
securely with the netting. But a cold front was moving in. I transferred milkweed and caterpillar
into a pot, covered it with the tent and brought it inside.
It was a month of transformation. It became still and hung upside down. It turned into a green
pod. A gold thread appeared around the pod, then the pod became thin, and I could see wings
inside! Then one Saturday when I came home from the farmer’s market, it had emerged.
It was a warm November day, and I gently removed the tent and sat beside it for two hours,
guarding against birds and wasps. It soaked up the sun’s rays, and slowly unfurled, uncurling its
antennae, then opening its wings with difficulty, wider and wider. Suddenly it lifted, flying
across the street headed south.
I did not see a single monarch this year. But I still plant milkweed. There is something stronger
than the hard world, something better within us all.
Kathryn Kyker is a retired social worker whose memoir, Surprised by Nothing, is being published this summer.
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