The Milkweed Meadow of Our Lives

I have often joked, "I don't have children or pets; I can't even keep a houseplant alive."  For years, I thought this statement was true, that my spouse had a green thumb, but not me.  But over the past few years, I've kept many plants alive.

I began to change my thinking with the butterfly garden that I created for my college--over 20 potted plants on a second floor, rooftop parking garage area.  I kept those plants alive, and we got to see caterpillars and their journeys to become butterflies.

In July of 2020, my colleagues gave me an orchid for my birthday.  That orchid has remained in bloom.  I've never heard of an orchid--or any plant--doing that.  I've had a few other orchids that I killed because of bad advice.  I was told they don't need much water, just an ice cube here or there.  Those poor orchids died.  With this orchid, I give it some water once a week, plus the dregs of my tea cup here and there.  It's thriving.

One of our colleagues left some plants behind when she was let go, and I moved them into my office when I found them withered.  I thought I was doing some plant hospice work, but nine months later, they're thriving too.

One of the things I will miss about having a house is the chance to garden, to see a slice of nature each day, and to watch the changes.  But we do have a deep balcony.

Last week-end my spouse moved some of our larger milkweed over--a great gift for our anniversary.  We didn't see any caterpillars, but a week later, we had at least 5.  Did we have eggs already on the plants?  Were there tiny caterpillars that we didn't see?

They have eaten all the milkweed, and we have had our conversations about whether or not to get more.  I have thought of all those desperate people in Afghanistan, waiting for rescue.  I have moved a few more plants from the old house to here.  I've thought about buying more.

My spouse thinks about the situation the way a traffic planner might:  if we build more highways, more people will drive.  In short, we'll never solve this issue.  My brain agrees, but my emotional core wants to fill the balcony with milkweed, and then my brain reminds us that we will still run out at some point.

We have our first chrysalis, so it will be interesting to see what happens.  At the school garden, we had no attacks by lizards, snakes, or birds, although the occasional chrysalis was consumed by ants.  Up here, the process should have no predators.

We await on the larger question:  will monarchs find us on the 6th floor?  When the milkweed grows back, will monarchs come to lay their eggs?

This process seems like much of my life right now.  We make decisions based on the best information we have right now.  We pray for guidance and drive carefully by the light of a full moon and a broken headlight.  We think back to times of consolation and desolation, those wonderful Ignatian descriptors for being on the right path and being astray.

I am trying to hard to trust the consolation--both in terms of butterfly gardens and in terms of the larger milkweed meadow of my life.