It is Fall. The geese pass over in their honking V’s while beneath them the leaves slowly turn from green to vivid yellows, oranges and reds. When I walk the dog in the morning, our breath is visible in front of us.
In the garden, only the ‘mums have any real life left to them. The sunflower crowns are black, picked clean by blue jays, grackles and the occasional crow. The tomatoes have sagged from their stakes, the weeds – left to their own since early August – have crowded the pepper and cucumber plants. One or two squashes are left, bright yellow in the tangle of the late Autumn garden.
And the Monarchs – most precious of all butterflies to me – have begun their magical, their reality-defying sojourn from northern climes to tthose due South. The regal butterflies I see fluttering through hayfield, over the old logging road, along the brook’s edge are never going to see Mexico (or Southern California), but their descendants will. In a few months – lifetimes in the world of butterflies – new generations will retrace the flight, returning to the fields and flowers of New England.
I was lucky as a child. I had teachers – and parents – who introduced me to live butterflies and then nurtured that interest and affection. I’ve tried to do the same for my children. Growing your own butterflies is fun and educational, a boffo combination. Anything that connects us to nature, keeps us aware of the complexity and wonder of the wider world is a good thing.
In recent years, though, I have found myself increasingly sad as Fall comes around. This weekend we’re going to “put the garden away.” While some of our crops – kale, second planting spinach, and some other root crops will continue to hold their own – our so-called “canning garden” is at its end. Time to uproot and turn over.
Time to get ready for winter.
And yes – it’s time to say goodbye to butterflies. While I believe that butterfly kits are important and useful, it’s been a long time since we’ve used one. I like keeping a thriving butterfly garden on the property – or thinking of my property as one big butterfly garden. When the temperatures drop and the nights lengthen, I have to say goodbye for another year.
And you know what? I don’t mind saying that it makes me feel some sadness, some longing. Yesterday, walking through the horse pasture, a Monarch butterfly nearly grazed me as it flew by. And it brought me up shortt. I love how their flight seems so aimless and yet has such purpose and power. I love how they stand out in the air, against the failing green of the New England fields and forests.
And I wondered if that butterfly was the last one I would see this year. Or is there another out there?
I guess I am saying – if I can do it without seeming too morbid – that my butterfly garden, as it winds down, and as the Monarchs (and the geese) head South, I am aware of my own mortality. We are guests here, visitors for a little while. Others will come after us. I don’t dwell on it, but I do recognize it. I want to honor it.
The butterflies help me – the ones that visited my lilac early in Spring and the Monarchs who swing by the purple and gold ‘mums. Here today, gone tomorrow. But for a little while, there is beauty. There is this respect for nature. It can hold us up if we let it.
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