This time of year, the trail that Best and I travel daily looks like a caterpillar superhighway. For reasons I’ll never understand, I have been obsessed with these fuzzy butterflies in training since I was old enough to be aware of their existence. Every spring I scan the ground, trees, and paved roads for their colorful, quick-moving bodies and when I spot one, I fight the urge to reach down to let it crawl onto my hand. Life is short for us all, and I don’t want to waste this critter’s precious time for my own selfish wishes. Still, knowing that other hikers and bikers use the same trail as Best and I, I’m so tempted to help the caterpillars across the path and out of harm’s way. But I don’t. What I do instead is just watch my own step and take comfort that Nature is far wiser than I and has designed each creature perfectly to fulfill its purpose.
When I was a kid I found a tree that was overrun with caterpillars one year, and I moved some of them to a cushy habitat I created in my little red wagon. It seemed like they were thriving until one day I noticed they’d vanished; in their place were dozens of small white pouches. My parents assured me that the caterpillars were fine, just moving on to their next stage without any need for me to rescue them. I kept an eye on my wagon for what felt like months waiting to see some activity, and when I finally did I was pretty distressed at what I witnessed. The brand-new butterflies seemed to be struggling so hard to fight their way out of the secure space that once allowed them to grow but now appeared to be trapping them. Still, my parents urged me to stand by and watch when all I wanted to do was tear their sticky prisons to allow room for escape. As with so many things in my life, my parents were spot on with their advice. The butterflies emerged, wings damp, and soon took flight for more appropriate accommodations.
What I learned about this process in the time to come is that the act of straining and struggling against the cocoon helps to strengthen the butterfly’s wings, and when that process is denied them they aren’t able to develop as they need to. What at first seemed like an act of concern—my wanting to rip the cocoon for them—really would only damage the very beings I was trying to help; without that self-sustaining strength, the butterflies would have perished prematurely.
Working with thousands of students over the years I’ve borne witness to their struggles both in and out of class. Early in my teaching career I worried about hurting students’ feelings with feedback and expectations that seemed “harsh.” In fact, it was more disrespectful of me when I tried to make everything easy for them because it communicated that I didn’t think they could handle challenge. What they needed, I learned, was someone who provided them developmentally appropriate tasks while equipping them with the skills to succeed. Sure, failure is always going to be a part of everyone’s learning process, but failure in safe spaces gives us the chance to recover, reflect, and advance with the scaffolding of people who care about us. And like the scaffolding we see surrounding buildings under construction, it is never meant to be permanent.
I hear people of my generation discussing young co-workers who lack the capacity to stick with a project without continual reminders, or who bristle at the insinuation that in order to receive pay they must report to work. I’ve known parents who can’t understand why their adult children lack motivation to launch into the world to begin living independent of the caregivers who cook and deliver their meals, pay their bills, and allow them to live rent-free while they sleep their days away. And I was the teacher who, for years, felt that I was loving my students by expecting very little from them. I still have moments when I cannot reconcile in my mind the fact that there are times when “love” looks like stepping out of the way to allow those in our care to struggle so that when they emerge victorious, they are strengthened and confident to tackle what lies ahead in the journey they were created for.
My family rescued three baby Robins one summer when I was young; the nest had fallen from the tree and the mama was nowhere to be found. If they were to have any chance at survival, my parents knew they’d need to step in to take care of these babies that were just beginning to have a few fuzzy feathers. For weeks there were round-the-clock feedings and we held our breath that they’d all survive. Improbably, they did. They grew louder, stronger, and were soon ready to be released. The littlest of the bunch, who we’d named Tarzan because of the volume and intensity of his squawks, would fly back to our porch each day and flutter his wings waiting to be fed. I loved it. Whenever I’d hear his chirps I’d race to the door to scoop him up and give him a snack. It felt like an act of cruelty and desertion when my folks told me this needed to stop because it wasn’t healthy for Tarzan. “What would happen,” they asked, “If we went away for a few days and Tarzan had never learned how to fend for himself?” I didn’t like it one bit, but what they said was true. It took such effort to peek outside and see Tarzan perched on the deck, mouth open and feathers quivering, and leave him to eventually give up and fly away. After only a few days, though, his mealtime visits ceased.
Over the remaining summer months, I’d be outside at the barn and hear a familiar chirping; when I’d look up I’d spot Tarzan in a nearby tree shaking his wings at me just as he’d done from the start. No doubt about it, though, if his round frame was any indication, he had learned to do just fine without me. I’d like to think that this is the fate for which we were all intended—to thrive with the right kind of care that prepares us to use these too-brief lives in a way that fulfills us and makes a difference.
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