Sun this morning still, although the clouds have already begun to move in on all sides, dimming its brilliance to a soft glow. There is otherwise no sign yet of the rain predicted for this day, but the forecast continues to intensify, with projections for a measurable fall tonight.
At the moment, the meadowlark sings, the weeping willow branches drift softly in the faintest of breezes, the dandelions show their faces to a mirroring sun . . . and a warming world makes space for butterflies.
The first butterfly of the season was, perhaps predictably, a mourning cloak. They come early every year, hardy little spirits with wings like royal velvet. They inspire trepidation: Too often, they have lived too well up to their name, first appearance or close-in flight heralding a loss soon to come. In this instance, though, the days, now week, have come and gone uneventfully, at least in that regard.
More common now are the painted ladies, a few bits of bright orange flitting here and there. The smaller whites and sulphurs have begun to appear, too, as well as the tiny gray and purple spirits, little bits of periwinkle like spiraling raindrops in the sun. The monarchs come later, if at all; only one braved last year’s drought, and then only for a few days before moving on to more welcoming climes. We have not yet seen the white admiral shown above; they are rare here even in the heart of summer. Wings captured that one’s image two years ago, the first and only time either of us has, to our knowledge, seen one here.
I love the admiral, though, because it reminds me of the old lesson about appearances. Viewed from the top, wings spread, the white admiral displays comparatively little white: The top of its wings are solid black, rich and velvety, with white bars forming a bold inner border, edges by rows of tiny white dots. If I didn’t know its name, and someone asked me to describe it, “white admiral” would not be the phrase that comes to mind; it seems to be a black butterfly.
Until its wings close.
Sitting upright, wings up, you can see the white clearly — almost (not quite, but almost) an inversion of the upper patter, with white the majority color, banded and barred by inky black lines. But the underside carries with it another gift, too, one entirely unexpected: shimmering lines of copper and bronze that give this small spirit a subtly spangled look.
It’s quite the contrast, and a reminder that there is more to all of us than what shows on the surface.
This is as true of the natural world and our non-human relatives as it is of ourselves. We can understand our world — truly understand it — only by meeting it as it actually is. Too often, we fail to look past the surface. Worse, we even more often distort what we perceive from what is into what we want it to be, what is most convenient, what is easiest, what holds the least responsibility for us.
And this willful ignorance, this even more willful distortion, is precisely what has led us to this pass. We now live in a world without, in the most literal and ridiculous of terms, a space for butterflies: where a would-be dictator seeking an outlet for his fascist and genocidal tendencies would construct a wall through a butterfly refuge purely to inflict further harm upon people with skin darker than his own. We live in a world where racism, and the ability to weaponize it, is more important than survival itself.
Here, we are blessed to inhabit our own refuge of sorts — a place that serves as sanctuary to all manner of indigenous wildlife, and not a few of the introduced variety, as well. It’s one reason why the birds return, year after year, sometimes even venturing far off their usual migratory paths to do so. It’s why we have visiting elk in winter and dragonflies in summer. And it’s why we have these small messenger spirits, from tiny whites to giant swallowtails and even the rare white admiral.
In this place, and in our lives and spirits, we have made a space for butterflies.
~ Aji
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