Lest we forget, the cycle of life continues unabated. Overly evolved monkeys that we are, we confuse our internal bullshit with literal reality. We’re prone to orbit the cult of politics. We roll like dogs in the serial panic it foments. When there is a chance to be stupid; we are a moth to flame.
It happens en masse from time to time. Periodically, societies lose their shit. This is one of those eras. Common sense, logic, stoic adherence to reason; these are in the rear view mirror. Karens shriek about masks as if the black death were ascendant. For some reason, in 2020 they are not told to shut up and tend to their cats as they should. Unserious wingnuts tear at the fabric of civilization and we chose not to give them the dope slap they need. Political cultists have left the shadows and openly search for Jews in the attic. They edge ever closer to kristallnacht, and we (for reasons I can’t quite articulate) simply allow them to drive society into the ditch.
Meanwhile real life continues. It properly ignores our self inflicted inner turmoil. The sun rises as always, the earth rotates, life on its surface continues. All this is as if we are nothing; which is for the most part correct. This truth points to a door in the cage of stupidity which we’ve built around our tantrums of inadequacy.
“There is reality and there is our inner mental space. Recently, many us have been stricken by the inability to separate the two. Until we learn better, this failing will continue to cause pain.”
So how do you unplug from the matrix and marvel at the beauty of all creation? That’s up to you. For me it meant watching a bug in a jar.
A couple years ago I scooped up a monarch caterpillar and stuffed it in a jar. It munched away on milkweed, formed a chrysalis, exploded into a beautiful butterfly, and flew away. It did this during a time when I’d been ill, attending funerals, and watching my dog age.
That little critter had a name, because I named him. Sebastian. (Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)
This year has not been a time of solace. I’ve lived through a post-Christmas impeachment, the far more important death of my dog, through “flatten the curve”, to… to whatever the hell you’d call right now. (Is this the twentieth week of our six week “flattening of the curve”?) I feel the far off madness of crowds intruding on my peaceful rural redoubt. So I found another caterpillar and watched it become a Monarch butterfly.
Sounds trite doesn’t it? But what better thing are most of us doing? Fretting over political riots, mask shenanigans, Facebook posturing? A virus as a new form of demonic possession? Is that it? Abandonment of reason due to a 99.96% survivable risk in a modern wealthy industrial society of unlimited wealth? Compared to losing one’s shit over an impending election and using glorified bandannas as medical devices, is a caterpillar in a jar somehow less worthy? Which is most connected to the outstretched arms of God?
Regardless of my overwrought poetics, and perhaps just because pretty things are pretty, I invite you to meet Colin. Colin was a caterpillar that had a transformative moment, became an entirely new being, and gained the power of flight. He did it from an old plastic cheeseball container perched on my kitchen table.
I gave him a little coffee stirrer to grasp, hustled him outside to dry in the sun, and then watched as he first perched on a thistle (proof that I’ve been remiss in trimming the lawn), and then my hand.
Then he was gone. It was the most perfect use of my time. All we have is time. If things are getting you down, find your caterpillar.
A.C.
Wish I could say it as well as you have.
For us, it’s watching the kitchen garden grow. The kids are still amazed to see how those little seeds sprout and grow into big plants that produce delicious treats for the dinner table. Watermelon, cucumbers, and tomatoes are special favorites. I suspect it’s partly the anticipation of watching the bud turn to a tiny fruit and then waiting while it grows and even more waiting for ripening on the vine. Even little ones notice how much better food tastes when it’s grown of your own effort; watered and nurtured to become a meal or a home canned little bit of savings for a future meal when the snow flies. I am amazed by the interest the children (all under 10) take in the process. They are always excited about doing their part in the garden, from planting to watering, weeding, and harvest. They especially like days making jam and jelly from our small little orchard. It’s not just sampling the process either. Each child has a task helping with the preservation: washing and cutting fruit, crushing grapes to get juice for jelly, stirring the cooking pots and watching the timer while we’re canning the end product. These are all blessings from God and a bit of pure joy for dad to see them learn useful skills. We’ve abandoned the insanity of TV in favor of homesteading as a family. Sure, we stay up on current events by listening to an hour or so of local morning radio: the farm report, auction prices, The weather forecast, and the obligatory network news. When that’s done, the children have their homeschool lessons and projects. That leaves plenty of time in the afternoons for them to help with chores, enjoy childhood play, ride their bikes on a lonely gravel road, and explore the small woods around our place. Neighbors are few, so socializing face to face is a real treat for everyone. Gratitude and appreciation for the blessings we enjoy are an important part of everyday life on a small working homestead. Hard labor, age appropriate of course, helps everyone know that good things in life don’t come free. Everyone contributes if things are to be completed and still leave time for leisure. There’s no time to waste of BS or busybody nonsense. Gotta stop and pay attention to the little miracles that surround us and ignore the pointless chattering that surrounds us all. We all benefit from retaining a little of that childhood wonderment of discovering or rediscovering the little things that really matter in life. I think you’ve said it far more eloquently.
Related, that box of 20 gauge #6 tells the tale of a man ready to enjoy dove season. #6 seems a little big for doves we have around here, but you have different conditions. Hope you get a mess of them. They’re delicious little critters when covered in a light flour, fried in butter, and served with cornbread and milk gravy.
Thanks for what you post to help everyone keep things in perspective. You’re doing God’s work.
-John
Thanks for the comment. Sounds like you’ve got it together. BTW: I’m not much of a dove hunter but I am looking forward to small game hunting this fall. It turns out the box was just the right height for a newly “hatched” (emerged?) butterfly. I’m sure one of the silly safety warnings on the side complains that butterfly perches are an unsafe use of a box of shells. 🙂
+1
Thanks!
I need that.!
Awesome, thanks.
Very cool.
Oh! Nice subliminal touch using that there Remington box. Carry on.
Nothing symbolic intended, the ammo box was too heavy for the little guy to tip over and tall enough so he could dangle from it without bending his wings in the surface below. Perfect for the need. Also it was close at hand during that hectic moment when he struggled out of his cocoon. Doesn’t everyone have a couple boxes of shells hanging out on the kitchen table?
Wait a minute, are you implying there are people who DON’T have shogun shells lying around everywhere? It can’t be! 🙂
I saw this earlier today:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hq3X60H7aBo
Strange coincidence, and cool little camera drone: I want one. 😛
Thanks for your posting.
Very appropriate use of time. Remember the song “Lunatic Fringe”?…I know you’re out there…I can hear you coming…There’s big benefits to living rural. Comments still not showing up. WTH? Good fortune and best wishes for the family/homestead.
Comments aren’t showing up? I’ll check that out.