Call Me Caterpillar

I’m going to get super weird and turn everyone off. I know that.

I’m also not worried about it.

Okay, maybe I’m a little worried but I’m going to tell you anyway.

I’m being followed. By caterpillars. And it isn’t the first time.

True story, many years ago, I set out to completely rewrite my life. I have since done that. But in the beginning of that rewrite, I started finding caterpillars everywhere. From the woolly bears I often met on walks, to the strange yellow fellow, an American Dagger Moth, that I played with in my own front yard (not recommended; I'm told they sting and can put you in the hospital with hives...not my experience, but worth the mention). I even shared a hotel room in South America during a spiritual retreat with a Brazilian caterpillar (probably, mostly likely NOT the kind that can kill you) who lived peacefully in the crook between my bedroom and the patio until I released it outside.

**I did jokingly ask if I could bring it home, and it was a resounding NO**

My favorite furry friend was the baby woolly bear that literally fell into my lap a few months after returning from South America. At the time I was struggling to get my life back in order and felt completely blocked in my writing. As I stood up to leave my laptop behind for the day, a tiny woolly bear dropped onto my shirt from…?

A caterpillar literally materialized out of thin air.

There is no sweeter, more fitting symbol of life transformation (since, you know, Phoenixes aren’t just going to land on my patio) than the caterpillar that literally transforms into something new and beautiful. Something that flies.

Lately, life is rewriting itself again. Transitioning to being a full-time writer—literally living the dream—should’ve been easy…right? I mean, I am classically good at making things harder than they need to be, but COME ON. This is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. Instead of blissing out and writing/editing my ass off, and making the other half-dozen changes to my health/lifestyle that this influx of TIME should afford, I’ve been crying (this surprises no one), questioning myself (also, not surprising), and so effing tired that by the time my son gets off the bus and wants to run circles around the backyard, Mama wants to collapse in a chair with a glass of chardonnay that I hopefully don’t spill when I pass the f*ck out.

As I’ve spiraled down rabbit holes of sabotage and self-worth issues I thought I left behind, my old friends started showing up again.

The first was another American Dagger Moth caterpillar that I rehomed to a tree from the back of my lawn chair.

The second was a yellow, hairless little dude crawling near my patio door.

And, because I’ve been listening to Gabby Bernstein lately—and that woman is not shy about asking for signs—I figured, what the heck. I asked for a third. That’s right—an adult woman looked to the ground and said, “God, I’d like another caterpillar…you know, if they are meant to be guiding me again.”

I don’t usually ask for signs. If they appear, great. I’ll take them. Asking, I usually find, leads to me looking, looking, looking, and looking some more, which—to me—defeats the purpose. But I asked and of course I looked.

For two days.

Then I forgot about it. Figured the dead caterpillar I found instead either didn’t count or was a bad omen that I didn’t want and moved on.

Today, as I sat down to write, I felt something crawling on my chest (between my boobs, if you want to be specific).

 A tiny, hairless caterpillar.

Okay, at this point you’re probably thinking that we have a bug problem. And you’re not wrong. Admittedly, I should have taken greater care when I harvested pears and brought them in the house, leaves and all. BUT it feels like it did before. Caterpillars appearing around me, ON me, at a time when life and time are being transformed.

Moral here: maybe it’s the pears. Or maybe it’s me.