Each of us has one or two special butterfly moments to remember. Mine was back in the early 1990s. Ed and I used to housesit our friend Nan's cottage in the Michigan countryside. Her land had a pond, woods with at least three "fairy rings", and a wildflower-covered meadow in which Nan used to mow paths for walking. Back in those days I was able-bodied, so walk I did, either by myself or with our dog Timmy. At the edge of Nan's property was a large field, green with clover. It was a favorite grazing place for the deer so I had to be careful that Timmy didn't get excited and chase them.

One hot July afternoon I left Timmy back at the cottage with Ed and set off by myself. I walked through Nan's woods and across the clover field into the forest on the other side. This was a favorite place of mine, one where I felt at one with nature. I would sit on an old rotted log and listen to the sounds around me: birds tittering, breezes swaying the branches overhead, occasionally the slithering sounds of a snake making its way across the forest floor. But this day I heard a distinctive rustling that seemed to be coming from the log on which I was sitting. At first I thought it was my imagination, but when it persisted I dropped my head and peered closely into the depths of the log. That was when I saw the light grey outline of a cocoon. And emerging from that cocoon was a butterfly with its wet wings plastered to its side. For the next ten minutes I watched it dry those wings by gently fluttering them in the air. Then, as if touched by magic, this beautiful butterfly stretched its wings fully open and flew away. And I was the earthbound caterpillar left behind.