Small Things

It was a tiny drama, but we noticed. A monarch butterfly was caught in a spider’s sticky, complex web, suspended between two clusters of bushes and brush, struggling to extricate itself. Its wings were trembling in a muted flutter, and even across the universe of our separate species and intelligences, a frantic message sounded, a message of fear and desperation.

The tiny filaments of the web were tightly wound in a microscopic maze about the butterfly legs and a portion of a hindwing. It all looked very delicate, but in fact it was a tenacious vignette, sticky to the touch. Monte used my walking stick to untwist things a bit and poke at the web. Finally, the butterfly tumbled onto a leafy branch below, quivering. We wondered if we should splash water on it to wash off some of the sticky residue, but it seemed best to let it recover on its own, if recovery was in the cards. We felt a small sense of accomplishment. We had tried.

Meanwhile, I’ve been having an ongoing nightmare that we are all caught up in a global pandemic and my country has as its leader a bizarre and reckless narcissist-buffoon who approaches it all as a reality TV show. Help. I can’t seem to wake up from it.

There is comfort in tending to the smaller things right now. Long-neglected potted plants on the deck have been groomed or transplanted, and I have a veritable lupine garden. I’ve been corresponding with my little neighbor, who is six years old; I find her letters in my mailbox, marked “SPESHL” delivery. I’ve learned wonderful new ways to cook beans, and I wonder why I neglected legumes for so long.

I’m getting a little better about phone conversations. It’s important to check in with folks, and that’s the logical way to do it right now, and sometimes you discover a deeper friend within a friend you already sort of had. And I’m keeping my binoculars handy, paying attention to visitors. At this very moment, a hooded oriole is dancing on the Cape honeysuckle– bright yellow flashes of movement on a mass of orange trumpets–and an iron-black lizard is doing pushups on the wall.

I don’t have any answers. I’m just staying afloat, trying not to add to the problems, hoping to be strong and ready when the time for action comes. It’s a tricky story. Sometimes I feel trapped and afraid, and I quiver like the butterfly, and I don’t expect rescue, but I still have faith in the saga’s abiding-ness, and in humanity’s ability to learn, and in the resilience of our souls, and the triumph of reason and love.

This is a difficult detour. But it’s not the end.