A Small Green Confinement

I spent last evening at my book club, drinking good wine with witty, articulate women while discussing thought-provoking books and life in general.  It's amazing to me how books, poems, and songs are so prismatic - their meanings and truths shifting depending upon where I am in life.

Earlier this year my book club read To Kill a Mockingbird.  A favorite of mine (as it is for many), it had been years since I visited Scout, Atticus, Tom, Boo and all the other inhabitants of Maycomb, Alabama.  I savored the tale so much more than I did in high school when it was a dreaded "assignment".  I was surprised to discover how minor plot lines I previously dismissed during my initial teen-aged reading captured my focus.  For example, Mrs. Dubose conquering her morphine addiction (made more poignant to me after watching a loved-one struggle with his own addiction to pain-killers), or Mr. Dolphus Raymond carefully acting the part of town inebriate because he knew it was the only way folks in the sleepy, southern, segregated town could make sense of how he chose to live his life.  These side stories resonated with my 36-year-old self when viewed through the lens of my life experiences.

I recently stumbled upon a poem I shared with my husband last year to mark a momentous occasion.  In the waning days of July, he rescued a caterpillar from a fallen tree branch outside his work place.  Ever the animal lover, he hastily assembled a cardboard box habitat for the refugee, diligently adding leaves and water when needed.  It was a remarkable day when he discovered his ward had ensconced itself within a cocoon.  On the day when a glorious black and yellow butterfly eventually emerged from the casing and flew away to its future, I read to him the following poem:

Black Swallowtail
by Mary Oliver

The caterpillar,
  interesting but not exactly lovely,
humped along among the parsley leaves
  eating, always eating.  Then
one night it was gone and in its place
  a small green confinement hung by two silk threads
on a parsley stem.  I think it took nothing with it
  except faith and patience.  And then one morning

it expressed itself into the most beautiful being.

At the time, this simple yet celebratory poem spoke very literally to me.  It was only after reading it again over the long holiday weekend that I realized it exactly captures the essence of how I currently feel, seemingly encased within my own overwhelming desire to become a mother, waiting and hoping.  Faith and patience, faith and patience, faith and patience...