Butterflies and Death Anniversaries
The author raising butterflies
In the months before the first anniversary of my husband’s death, my son and I raised butterflies. They started as tiny caterpillars, smaller than the size of a child’s fingernail. We planted milkweed, brought fresh leaves into the caterpillar house every day, cleaned out the poop. (Fun fact: Did you know caterpillar poop is called frass? You can impress your friends with this on your next nature hike).
Caterpillars poop. A LOT! Eric Carle did not write about this in his hungry caterpillar book. Or how butterflies live very short lives, and then die. Bad children’s book author.
Why do we not talk about these things?
I used to try to protect my child from these facts, too: poop (Good luck trying to protect your child from talking about poop! Children love to talk about poop.), and death.
I find that sad now. And ironic.
Why do we not talk about death? It is pretty much the only guarantee in this life: that we, and everyone we love, will die.
For weeks, my son and I brought in fresh milkweed leaves and cleaned the frass. The caterpillars grew and grew. (Eric Carle was right about that.) One day, one of the caterpillars split open its striped skin and turned green. It spun a button on the roof of the caterpillar house, attached itself, and twisted itself into a J shape, preparing to cocoon.
As the day of my husband’s thanoversary approached, I anxiously waited for the caterpillars to become butterflies. I wanted to release them on the day of his death! I really, really, really needed this to happen! (Death, and grief, bring such feelings of powerlessness and lack of control.)
As the day of my husband’s thanoversary approached, I anxiously waited for the caterpillars to become butterflies.
Everybody kept asking me: “Do you have a plan?”
Apparently, I was supposed to have a plan. (This is the problem with a culture that is not grief and death literate: we’re not comfortable with discomfort. So, we tell people to “make a plan.”)
But I was trying to do this grief thing right. So I made a plan. And then I worried about how my plan to release butterflies wasn’t working. The butterflies were not emerging.
The day arrived. The “butterflies” were not butterflies. I began to soften into acceptance. Just as I had not planned for my husband to die before we grew old together, the butterflies were not going to be born on the day he died.
However, the whole caterpillar house was filling up with J’s. I suddenly had a flash of understanding. You see, my husband’s name was Jonathan (J). Jonathan was a man who was a bit contrary, very funny, and on his own timeline, often arriving late. And here he was: late, and exactly on time – with some humor. It was as if he was saying: Here I am: J, J, J, J, J, always and infinitely with you.
The author’s son raising butterflies
A (wild) monarch butterfly visited us that day. For most of the day, it fluttered nearby, and rested, right outside my window. My son and I ran outside to take a picture. I cried. My husband, the Monarch (his last name was King and he was British), was visiting us.
A friend of mine calls these signs “God winks.” They don’t take away the grief, these signs. And who knows if they are really our loved one visiting us. I choose to believe so.
I find looking for meaning and connection makes the grief easier to bear. It allows me to find a way to carry loss with more grace, less fear. It softens the need to have my life-plan go as planned.
Signs can help us move forward, with our loved one still in our hearts and minds, even as they’re not here. We carry them, the love they left, and the love we still have with us, in our hearts. We let our own hearts break open, like the cocoons, knowing our own lives are like butterflies, too: brief – and if we choose to be aware of it – full of grace.
