Hope for the Caterpillars

I root for the caterpillars every year.

The parsley and dill in my garden always attract Swallowtail butterflies. Sometimes I see tiny eggs appear on the leaves and begin watching at that point—each morning and evening, hoping to discover a new generation beginning.

This year, I missed the eggs, but noticed two tiny caterpillars in their first instar—the earliest stage of their development. They were black swallow tails, so small they could easily have gone unnoticed. I searched and searched my large bolted plants for more, but there were only two.

Within a few days, the smaller one had disappeared, likely becoming a meal for another creature or maybe falling victim to one of the violent early summer storms we've been having.

One caterpillar remained, and I kept rooting for it. Each morning and evening, I would check the parsley to see how much it had grown. Before long, it had reached its third instar stage, noticeably larger with the familiar markings of a Black Swallowtail caterpillar.

Then one afternoon, I went out to see it after work and it was gone.

I felt surprisingly disappointed, even though I know this is simply part of the natural world. Every year I root for them and hope that at least one will complete its remarkable transformation. So far, I've not been lucky enough to witness it, but I keep hoping.

Not every observation has a satisfying ending. Sometimes the joy comes simply from paying attention, even when the story unfolds beyond our view.

As I watched those tiny caterpillars this year, I was reminded of an idea I keep deprioritizing—a painting of butterflies arranged in a gentle circle or an arch, celebrating the beauty of a life I continue to admire, even if I've yet to see it completed in my own garden.

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