The Ca’erpiwah

In the rising warmth of the morning, while playing in the yard, my son Garion found a green caterpillar on the patio table. I offered it my finger—which it grabbed trustingly—and the two of us watched it crawl across my hand as if trying to make sense of the new landscape.

By now Garion was inside the curtain of the moment, trying to make sense, in his own way, of the odd squirt of life in my hand. All the while I told him what I knew of this "baby" insect, not so unlike himself—a small being on a singular quest for food and growth; a life destined to blossom into something amazing.

Time was spent passing the critter between hands of father and son (and once to and from our noses, which is funny for grown-up and toddler alike). I was glad for the opportunity to teach my son something new about nature, and more so for the lesson it afforded in compassion—for we were gentle with the larva, and never addressed it as a lesser thing, or called it "gross" when it pooped on my hand.

When it was time to let the caterpillar go, I carried it over to a nearby tree—the one I assumed it had come from—and carefully placed it on the lichen-encrusted bark. There it crawled into a shadowed furrow and lay still. "It's napping," I said quietly. And Garion, already familiar with naps, and by extension the colorful dreams which shower down upon them, leaned in close to his new friend and whispered, "Good night, ca'erpiwah."





Green Caterpillar by Renee Sturner






(From the book HEARTVINES)