The Caterpillar Era Carries Its Own Magic
If you love Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s timeless novella, The Little Prince, you’re well aware that it reads like a fable. Its weighty lessons echo long after turning the last page. I returned to this genius story recently and found myself viewing it with new eyes. This time, instead of focusing on the lessons gleaned from the Little Prince’s descriptions of his journeys through the planets, I noticed the rose’s poignant insight.
And unexpectedly, it made me take stock of my circle in a new way.
In the story, the Little Prince recounts protecting the rose from the elements and also from the caterpillars who would try to eat her. Movingly, the rose tells him:
“Well, I must endure the presence of a few caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems they are very beautiful.”
I’d never noticed this line before, but at this particular moment in time (deep within the editing cocoon of the sequel to Summer Triangle), it hit me hard.
The creative cycle has often been linked the butterfly’s life cycle. I understand the pull of this imagery, because few metaphors in nature better describe the process of transformation. As the poet Rupi Kaur famously noted, “You do not just wake up and become the butterfly. Growth is a process.”
We’re all drawn to butterflies, aren’t we? They are the ultimate symbol of resilience and transformation. And they’re beautiful beyond words.
But these days, I get why the rose is open to spending time with caterpillars. Even if they’re less cute, grounded, and threateningly hungry, they hold the promise of magic within them. Their bodies already contain the maps of their eventual becoming. They’re fuzzy butterflies in the making.
Caterpillars are doing the work of readying their squirmy forms for magic, even though the world isn’t clapping for them yet.
Lately, I want to surround myself with caterpillars. The energy of someone who shows up, tries hard, and creates without even the caterpillar’s odds is the most compelling kind; it’s the same magic the leads roots to rise from seeds beneath the soil, no less sparkly because the light can’t reach them yet.
I spoke on the phone earlier this week with a friend who is putting herself out there again, pitching work that yanks her out of her comfort zone. I spoke with another friend who is losing (too much!) sleep to make a deadline. I’m currently reading an incredible ARC (advanced reader copy) of an amazing novel on the eve of publication, ready to break through its cocoon at any moment. And in conversation with my fellow creatives, I share my own daily grind, the bleary-eyed (but savored) experience of bringing a book into being.
After I finished speaking with my friends, I had the realization that maybe we’ve got it wrong. It’s easy to love a butterfly. What about the caterpillar’s hungry, trudging journey? What about the hidden stretch inside the cocoon?
(Yes, I know we use the word “cocoon” as a metaphor to conjure something cozy and welcoming and restful. I’m inside of one right now. If only.)
As much as I feel like a caterpillar most days, I also feel like that rose. I am blessed to be surrounded by caterpillars, and I can sense the butterfly inside each one of them. They can’t see their wings yet, but I can. This is why entrepreneur Bob Parsons famously advised, “When you’re ready to quit, you’re closer than you think.” Butterflies (the good ones) always look back to nudge caterpillars along. Because they know best that caterpillars require gentle nudging to keep going and self-trust, to hold tight to a vision they alone can provide.
You’ll have to trust me when I say that my caterpillar circle shimmers with beauty.
And when I want to connect with someone now, I find it’s usually because I can sense the dream inside of them. Their ambition. Their inspiration. We must always open our petals to caterpillars. Because what it is friendship if not holding someone else’s dream on the days when it exhausts them?
At any moment, they will spread their wings. You will too (maybe you already are), and I’ll spread mine. We’ll all be right there, up close: bearing witness. Lucky us.
