The Minnesota winter of 2023-24 was one in name only. Persistent grey skies and stubborn tawny shades defined a landscape that would have normally been contoured by nature’s frozen frosting.
I am not going to lie; my nervous system enjoyed its seasonal vacation. I had not realized how demanding this season was to my overly responsible disposition.
I enjoyed not having to mindfully shuffle my feet across endless icy surfaces.
And the freedom from raking a roof that had a proven proficiency in producing ice dams was a delicious change of pace.
But I also learned, there is something about nature’s visual cues that uniquely grounds us in our relationship with time and rhythm. And for months, I felt dissonance. I never quite knew the date. Hours that would have normally been marked by a more restful pace, suddenly seemed to rush by and demand more activity.
During the first week of March, while out on a walk, my husband Ken and I had the most unlikely of encounters. At a time of year when sidewalks would normally have been bookended by crusty banks of snow, here was a woolly bear caterpillar contentedly rambling along.
Overcome by an unrestrained force of nostalgia, I forgot my chronological years and instantly crouched down to pet the soft bristled back of this future tiger moth. “Hello, little guy, what on earth are you doing out at this time of year?” It was clear, nature’s relationship with time was not a construct composed of weeks assembled on calendars, but rather a real time responsiveness to conditions. While this insight feels particularly pertinent to my adult mind, I must admit, at the time, my inner child chose the simple revelry of visiting with a familiar childhood companion.
Dressed in his own fuzzy coat, worn consistently during this particular stage of his development, he moved through the world certain of its right conditions. Moved by compassion and pity, I once again ran my finger gently across his woolly back. This time, my touch seemed to carry with it an energy of fear that caused the caterpillar’s survival instinct to respond by halting all forms of movement.
At that point, Ken, who had been assessing the human activity out on this rare 60-degree March day said, “I hope no bicycles run him over.” I tend to have an innate trust in the wisdom of nature and generally choose a hands-off approach, but Ken’s concern beckoned my inner superhero and I asked, “Well, do you think I should move him?” Quick in his response, his confidence was easy to follow. “Yeah. Let’s just get him into the grass.”
With that, I found a piece of tree bark that I could introduce into his path, and I was delighted when his single-minded journey willingly found him on its surface. Wanting to be sure the caterpillar’s grasp on the wood was secure enough to travel, I slowly lifted the tree bark a few inches from the ground.
Again, driven by an unwavering survival instinct, the caterpillar released its back legs and wrapped itself into a small circle. Becoming a real-life “tree hugger,” its front legs held tight to one side of the wood chip and the hind legs attached to the back side. He remained in this defended position as I transported him to a dry patch of dead grass and leaves; a place I deemed safer for him.
I set him down and was sure his previous contented ramble would resume. Instead, he remained a motionless O-ring. “Go on, little guy. You’re ok.”
In hindsight, I am not sure my caterpillar friend would have arrived at a similar conclusion. But at the time, I wanted him to know my threat had passed. He was free to move about again, in an environment that would be far less fraught with danger.
Still, nothing.
For several seconds, I stared at his steadfast hooped shape and became distressed. I knew I had not killed him, but I was deeply troubled by what seemed to have been assessed as truly threatening conditions.
With Ken’s promptings and a deep and abiding guilt, I left its presence; at once feeling a poignant lesson. Sometimes, our best intentions can feel more harmful than helpful. Humbled, I walked through the rest of my day, mindful of boundaries and painfully reminded of a principle I learned while studying Reiki. There is a profound and somewhat elusive wisdom in knowing…
what is mine to do
We live in a confusing world that almost insists on more heart centered intervention, but how do we know our rightful role within it? Are we responding out of love or fear? Can we recognize the difference? What inner knowing have you come to trust in guiding your actions?
2 responses to “Mine to Do…?”
I think it was Gandhi who once said he always acted in self interest but how you determine what is Self makes the difference.
The Hawaiian term comes to mind Ho’oponopono.
To make something right when it is out of our hands!
The other piece of wisdom I recently came across was in a book written by a healer who learned first hand from his Aboriginal teachers. It was important to know to ask for what was personally needed, rather than letting others do for them what they could do for themselves and anticipate their needs. Self empowerment strengthens personal success. Asking for help builds confidence.