Does the Caterpillar Know?
Here we go again: Another idea, dropped in the midst of a fairly challenging interval during a Peloton ride, that stuck with me for what has now been months. I’ve been chewing on this: When a caterpillar sees a butterfly, do you think she knows?
What a wonder to wonder. Would a caterpillar, face to face with a butterfly, recognize…what? Some kinship? Some sense of future self? Some vision of a destiny or plan?
To know when she sees the butterfly would suggest that the caterpillar recognizes that which she is to become, to be. She has some vision into her future self. It’s nice to imagine that she does. It’s reassuring to think that the caterpillar has that understanding. There’s comfort in that.
But I don’t think it’s true. At least, not more than an inkling.
What I think the caterpillar knows, instead, is not what to be, but rather what to do. She must continue moving. She must continue growing. She must continue her action until such time as she must—in her cocoon—pause and become1. See, the transformation of the caterpillar to the butterfly is a process of physical change. It doesn’t follow from will, from a plan, from any ambition. It follows from movement, from action.
So, when she comes out of the cocoon, the butterfly also doesn’t have to wonder or worry or reflect on what she is or what she was. Again, all she has to do is do: Flap her wings. Fly. In the act of doing, the butterfly—née caterpillar—is now what she was to become.
At first blush, this might be troubling. So many of us—especially and absolutely me—are planners. We are strivers. We are managers, controllers, achieve-the-goalers. To people like us, it’s not so nice to consider that we’re not working toward something. Even if we can countenance the notion of the end goal being some form of destiny, or the will or plan of a greater power,2 we want there to be a goal. We want to measure every step. We want to tick boxes on our lists and really know that we are achieving something.
But here’s the thing: We can be caterpillars, too. We can choose not to worry about what we are supposed to be, and focus instead on that which we have available to do. Action becomes the watchword, rather than any predetermined or proscribed result. I don’t have to try to be a doting father, a loving spouse, a loyal friend. In fact, there’s no plan I even can really follow to fulfill those ambitions. All I can do is do. Read the extra book to my kids. Say “thank you” to my wife. Call my friend to see how he’s doing. Whatever energy, mental or physical, I expend planning these things out or trying to embody some preconceived notion of them is fruitless. The way to be generous and grateful and kind is to do generosity and gratitude and kindness.
Here, a practice—physical, emotional, spiritual, energetic3—becomes useful, and probably fruitful. Even if we start a practice out of some impulse to achieve some end, we only maintain the practice because we keep on doing the thing. It’s only sustainable if—and because—the actual action of doing the practice becomes a part of our routines and rituals. These things may kick off because of plans and designs, but they cannot grow from the same. We’re not built for that.
Perhaps we’re built to be butterflies. We make moves, take action. We do. Day after day, we act. And, one day, we may look upon ourselves—and, indeed, the world may look upon us, too—as entirely different.
Recall, perhaps, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, whose principal protagonist felt hungry, ate, and repeated until it became clear that the next thing to do was build a cocoon, where he stayed until he began to nibble and push his way out. That dude was all action, no pretense.
i.e., not strictly under our own personal control, but still accountable to some being’s will
Think: prayer, meditation, yoga, exercise, journaling, study, etc., whether done in private or in community with others.