Weeks ago, our zoo announced they would be hosting a monarch festival in October where “costumes are encouraged”. I immediately knew my entomology obsessed daughter would be thrilled to attend. A quick search on Amazon led me to purchasing her a set of wings. Every little girl deserves to feel like they can touch the sky.
October 7th arrived cold and bright. We layered up our clothes, hats, coats (and wings) to spend a few hours watching our kids just be kids. They don’t know how stressed me and their dad are right now. They don’t know we’ve been living in a slow emergency for over a decade. They just know we’re spending the day at the zoo to enjoy learning about monarchs. I wouldn’t want it any other way. As we walked fluttered along winding garden paths, the gibbon’s howls echoed through the zoo. The chill wind made our faces smart and turn red. We stuffed our bare hands deep in our pockets and walked quickly from place to place. Meanwhile the sun gradually warmed our bodies from overhead, narrating the day with light.
We stopped at one of the festival tents with a table setup underneath. An older woman with silver hair was standing behind it wearing a brown knit cardigan. She looked like she probably vacations in Patagonia. She showed us a glass case full of monarch chrysalides. At first glance, I thought they were fake. The smooth, emerald casing flecked with gold twinkling on their edges couldn't be reality. Surely these were just hand painted models for educational purposes. I know all too well, life isn’t always that perfect, that beautiful. I asked Patagonia Woman if the chrysalides were real, she confirmed they were and I was flabbergasted. My inner cynic was delighted to be proven wrong.
I’m tired of the difficult things life keeps hurling our way. I’m tired of talking vaguely about it when it happens. I’m tired of trying to write around it and watching it sneak in anyway. I keep plodding along towards some fictional ‘someday’ I’ve formed in my head where life is more than just trying to stay afloat. With some of the things we’re dealing with, I don’t see a resolution. No one can fix it. We’re living through complicated circumstances that aren’t necessarily life threatening so we continue on. Every year, I have a thread of hope for change and every year it snaps and we get no answers. I’m starting to believe this is how it will always be. My inner cynic would be delighted to be proven wrong.
The kids asked to ride the train and the new carousel. They’re old enough to sit together without an adult on the train, but they’re still little enough to want one of us next to them on the carousel. They won’t be young enough to experience the magic of things like that for much longer. Maybe when they’re our age, they’ll recognize it again because we took time to teach them the language of it now. That’s my prayer anyway.
The morning waltzed into the afternoon. We saw snow leopards, giraffes, kudu, and one stalwart tortoise. Our kids dove headlong into the joy of whatever the next turn of the corner offered and, taking us by the hand, they pulled us into the thick of it with them. We gathered up joy in bushels, carrying it around in giant armfuls but somehow feeling lighter at the same time. The sun kept telling the day’s story from her blue balcony. We weren’t cold anymore.
All the while, our 6 year old flapped and hop-skipped with her new wings through every exhibit and display with no regard for how she was perceived. Her orange and black rimmed wings carried her through the hours, a fairy-child in a wool bonnet and Target jeans. I don’t know if her feet ever touched pavement the entire time. I wish I could give her the whole sky.
Near the end of the excursion, our son asked for funnel cake fries. Sure, why not? Within minutes, our fingertips were covered in sweetness. We laughed at our sugar mustaches and the way our daughter looked like the powder had been in the forecast to fall on just her shirt. For a short while, nothing existed but watching my husband and two kids sit in a patch of sunlight, smacking their lips and sharing in a small slice of heaven. I don’t want a fancy life for them. I just want one where we can breathe a little easier.
It was nearly time for us to go. Life can only be put on pause for so long. Our little monarch immediately protested. “I don’t want to leave!” she whimpered. “I know. I don’t want to either.” I said as I tucked her hand in mine and walked towards the exit gate. She doesn’t want to leave her happy place and I don’t want to go back to big decisions about “what’s next?”. I don’t want to go back to expensive therapy sessions that are helping so slowly it seems like they aren’t helping at all.
Did you know the gold spots on a monarch’s chrysalis aren’t caused by just pigmentation? They’re also produced by the sun reflecting and alternating between the light and dark layers of the butterfly’s transformational casing. The shadows and brightness mingle together, inseparable; joy producing a richness made more precious by its imperfection. Sometimes life is downright ugly-beautiful and all we can do is trace the gold that gets woven into its seams when joy and difficulty meet together.
As we walked through the gates, across the bridge and down the escalator to the parking lot, our daughter grew increasingly sad. She’d live at the zoo if we’d let her. I know what it’s like to want something so deeply you feel like it could burst you from the inside out but no one can make it happen. We packed up and drove south across the Ohio River, back to our crooked little house on a hill in Kentucky. Our daughter unbuckled and climbed out of the van to trot up the pathway to our home. The drive back was a difficult one. She had went through every stage of six-year-old grief at realizing she couldn’t have something good she really wanted.
As I gathered all the things we’d packed for the day, I realized though we’d left the zoo behind, we brought her wings back with us. I folded them up in my hands and followed her to the house. I couldn’t fix her sadness, but I could give her back her wings.
I know, in her own way, she’ll keep finding ways to touch the sky.
I loved taking the kids to the zoo when they were young -- we had our favorite animals to visit and of course all the hoofy things to see. Life’s worries are on hold in those moments. Best wishes on the therapy (slowly) helping. In my therapy experience, plateaus can feel eternally long but eventually change happens. Thanks for the reminder of pleasant zoo memories.
"we brought her wings back with us" is such a beautiful metaphor for living. Thank you for sharing <3