I was today years old when I discovered that a caterpillar’s body liquefies inside its chrysalis.
Their bodies turn to gloppy, squirty goo, and it would be reasonable and rational to think dissolving is the end of any story. But it’s not.
Am I the only one who needed to pay better attention in fifth grade natural science class? The process, not just the result, of metamorphosis is serious business. Hibernating for a few weeks to sprout wings would be extraordinary. But the miracle is bigger; caterpillars cease to be to become something else.
Except they somehow emerge with the most important part of themselves intact: their memories. Maybe it’s different in the larval world, but as people, we define ourselves through a tangle of memories, and those memories are integral to our sense of self. I’m not sure how much consciousness caterpillars have, but a study shows that the stuff they learned in their carefree caterpillar days survives the big bang of butterfly creation.
A scientist put a bunch of caterpillars in a box and let them get a good sniff of some caterpillar-relevant odor. When they were happily ambling toward that delightful scent, they got zapped. And not a quick buzz — many seconds of electrified memory building.
The scent was released and the caterpillars zapped until they learned to be afraid of the smell. Finally, they were allowed to get on with their magic trick of turning into moths. When they emerged from their chrysalises, the scientists released the same scent. The moths fled from it.
One more mind-boggling caterpillar fact: If you dissect a caterpillar (please don’t) and you’re very careful, you can find the frame of their wings and antenna resting just beneath their skin. The scaffold for their ultimate form is in them from the very start. It grows with them. It defines them. It’s integral, vital, and a promise of what’s to come.
Like a magician planning an illusion, nature preps to create magic. And like the best magic, the whole thing is hard to believe.
Could we have versions of ourselves from every milestone birthday or pivotal moment in life inside us from the start? Pressed up against our ribs could be our 80-year-old self or the version of us after managing persistent stress or the version that hasn’t lived through any trauma. In addition to knowing how our skin might fold, or when arthritis might act up, maybe these versions are preloaded with humor or vigor or tolerance.
If there are past and future parts of me pressed inside today’s version, have they worked together to stiffen my spine? Does the old me help the current me make choices, and do I have any say over which traits dominate? Can I skip the deeply pessimistic me and shift my energy to supporting my best version?
I’ve read that as we age, if we live in the past and access memories and recall the escapades and attitudes of our younger selves, we’re happier. The remembering can even lower our blood pressure and heart rate.
I’ve also heard the advice that we should be like goldfish. Goldfish have no long-term memory. In three seconds, whatever they clocked is gone and they swim on, unbothered. I’ve loved this advice. It made me laugh the first time I heard it, and I’ve probably quoted it. But now I wonder if remembering and keeping hold of memories is where the magic starts.
There’s no learning without history. It’s hard to imagine how to become a better version of myself if I don’t remember what my past self was up to. I need to know where all the parts of me are stored. Easy laughter (second rib, left side), deep connections and love (third rib, left side), short temper and impatience (eighth rib, right and left sides) — the good and less good are all there.
Reframing our wrinkles as something that’s always been with us might make us like those wrinkles more. And knowing our history and what we’re storing inside gives us more than comfort. It gives us power.
The miracle of a caterpillar isn’t that it invents something new; it’s that it puts energy into what’s already there so it can take our breath away.
Spring has been sticking to winter’s ribs for months, and it’s finally here. I can see the leading edge of mud season unfurling beneath the shell of snow, another miracle unfolding before our eyes. Caterpillars are about to be munching trees, and if you see one crossing the road, I hope you’ll give it a lift to safety. (Unless it’s a browntail moth caterpillar, and then my past and future selves hope you were out in February drowning them in their nests.)
I hope you left some leaf piles so woolly bears could have a winter home, and I hope your garden has room for milkweed when monarchs are seeking safe harbor.
And I hope that if you’re deciding what to be, you use memory and intention. Don’t be a goldfish.
Be a butterfly.
