Morphing: Lessons from the Year of the Monarch

Ew—yuck—is it on me?—I think it’s on me! If you’d seen me flailing, flapping, and dodging during an inadvertent visit to an enclosed butterfly garden fifteen years ago, you would not have been surprised to learn I have a phobia about insects. Even gentle, harmless, beautiful insects like butterflies.

And you would not have been surprised by my revulsion when, many years later, a friend dropped off a chrysalis to our home so that we could observe its development. (By “we,” I mean my husband, whose interests are wide-ranging, to say the least.)

But you would have been surprised at the change in my feelings as that chrysalis developed. Though disgusted at first, I became gradually more and more interested in and intrigued by this butterfly-in-waiting. That change even led me to join Tweetspeak Poetry’s Year of the Monarch project, a year-long celebration of the monarch butterfly in the form of poetry, essays, and a call to action.

Over the course of the project, I learned so much about the monarch—its history and habitat, its struggles in the face of climate change, its intricate internal navigation mechanism for its multi-generational journey across the country.

But also, in true Tweetspeak Poetry fashion, I learned about life and how I want to live it.

Lesson One: Attention Matters

Over the past few years, I’ve become much more aware of the amount of online distraction that pulls me away from what I find to be important. Staying on subject and on task has become a daily challenge.

Author Jenny Odell warns us about the multiple forces now vying for—and commercializing—our attention. In her manifesto, How To Do Nothing, she explains how those same forces, by co-opting our attention, are co-opting our very experience of life.

In many ways, this year-long celebration of the monarch butterfly helped me reclaim my attention and my power to direct it. As I concentrated upon the monarch, as I searched for it in my own backyard, in local parks, and along its migratory paths in Texas and California, I was choosing what I wanted to see in the world and how I wanted to spend my time within it.

Not only that, the act of paying such close attention changed how I felt about this “bug.” To my endless surprise, it gradually became something I loved.

Lesson Two: Actions Matter

Of course, as I paid more attention, I also learned uncomfortable facts. I had to open my eyes to the precipitous decline in the monarch population and how it is now poised at an extinction tipping point. I began to understand its struggles, its loss of habitat, its migratory disruptions from climate change. And in so doing, I also had to witness the overall loss in our planet’s biodiversity.

I had to sit with my grief, experience it, rather than turning away from what was happening around me.

But, as the extraordinary writer Rebecca Solnit asserts, our grief can co-exist with hope. In her words, “Hope locates itself in the premise that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act.”

As such, a central component of the Year of the Monarch was a call to action to participants, to plant milkweed in their own backyards. Milkweed is the sole habitat of the monarch butterfly, and the loss of this habitat is a primary cause for its population decline.

I learned that actions, however small, can ignite and sustain hope, and even lead to larger ripple effects—perhaps our own butterfly effect!

Lesson Three: Community Matters

When I first committed to my writing path, I had a tendency to feel alone, like I was shouting into the void without anyone around me to hear. Tweetspeak taught me that there are wonderful communities around us, ready to support and uplift us. (For new—and seasoned—writers who are seeking community, I highly recommend Tweetspeak!)

In the same way, the Year of the Monarch opened my eyes to the number of people laboring on behalf of one tiny creature, and for pollinators in general. They are planting butterfly gardens in their yards, or joining with others to create pollinator zones in community parks. They are clearing out invasive species from public spaces and transforming landscapes along highways. They are working, planting, advocating.

I even learned the history of my local West Park, about the leaders committed to reclaiming its native prairie, as well as the struggles and losses the group experienced. Now, that public space is teeming with lush biodiversity.

Morphing

A few months ago, I visited the Natural History Museum in Copenhagen, Denmark, which had—wouldn’t you know it?—a butterfly garden.

It seemed like a test, as I remembered my wild distress at an Indiana butterfly garden so many years ago. I won’t say it was easy, but I opened the door and walked through, breathing slowly and deeply as insects began to flit around me.

This time, I had a genuinely different experience. In my state of calm, I could observe the little creatures from all over the globe, as well as their colors and markings and shapes. Unfortunately, there were no monarchs, but I found myself captivated by the Blue Morpho butterflies, native to Mexico as well as Central and South America. It was impossible not to notice the bold streaks of iridescent blue flying through the garden, from end to end.

I was curious about the “Morpho” name and checked my phone for theories. Some cited connections to Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams, and others, to Aphrodite’s epithet meaning “the shapely one.” Other interpretations came from the current definition of “morph”—to change or transform—because the Blue Morpho’s wings seem to change shape as they fly.

I found myself thinking about the last interpretation, especially given the amount of change inherent in the path from caterpillar to butterfly, but also because I myself felt so changed by this relationship I’d had with the monarch over the course of the past year.

Standing there, unhurried and composed, quietly aware of the flitting creatures and their life cycles and life imperatives, I realized it:

I, too, had transformed.

Time to Party!

The Year of the Monarch culminated in a Garden Party, complete with sunhats, garden tools, and of course, poetry readings. This event, hosted by L. L. Barkat, the editor-in-chief of Tweetspeak Poetry, was attended by folks who participated in the milkweed pledge, as well as other community guests.

Laura Boggess and I read our poems related to milkweed and monarchs, and then we all had the pleasure of hearing Sonja Johanson and Jules Jacob read from their new book of poems, Rappaccini’s Garden (White Stag Publishing). These poems about poisonous plants were a perfect tie-in for our event, given that milkweed is also poisonous to humans, animals, and insects—except, of course, the monarch caterpillar!

Afterward, L.L. Barkat shared some, well, interesting, poems entirely generated by AI after being prompted with various words related to the Year of the Monarch. (I think the job of Poet is safe for now.) The event concluded with wonderful raffle giveaways of Rappacini’s Garden, as well as Laura Boggess’s novel Mildred’s Garden  and Year of the Monarch swag!

Thank you to all who joined the celebration!

And much gratitude to editors L.L. Barkat and Will Willingham, as well as my project partner Laura Boggess, for creating this beautiful and inspiring program, the Year of the Monarch! It has been a tremendous pleasure and privilege to be a part of it.

Photo by USFWS Midwest Region, Creative Commons License via Flickr. Post by Dheepa R. Maturi.

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Dheepa R. Maturi

Dheepa R. Maturi is a writer of poetry, essays, and fiction. As an aspiring optimist, she loves to explore themes like connection, hope, and environmental harmony. Dheepa's first novel, entitled 108, combines all of those themes into an eco-thriller. Dheepa's work has appeared in The Indianapolis Review, New York Quarterly, The Fourth River, and the book How to Write a Form Poem and more. Find her at www.DheepaRMaturi.com

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