What I Saw

We Arizonans get a little excited about clouds since our skies are almost always draped in a dazzling sapphire robe, interrupted by nothing but blue. Some of us are so taken by clouds that we take photos of clouds every chance we can (me).

Sometimes the struggle between sunlight and cloud cover offers a sight worthy of pure silence. Click to enlarge.

Some of us (dearest husband, a trained National Weather Service spotter) become a bit obsessed with them, sitting in metal chairs next to metal flagpoles while lightning flashes all around during monsoon season – just looking. Ahem.

Hubby caught this beauty of a cloud last week. The pink of sunset cast a flaming glow to the pinnacle of this cloud formation, and if you look closely, you’ll see that rain is pouring out onto the mountain range below. Click to enlarge.

For me, part of the fascination with clouds is their versatility. No two clouds are shaped the same, and the slightest of changes to atmospheric conditions – and even the position of the sun – can change everything. In an instant.

An incoming storm painted the sky behind our house an angry yellow hue that was, indeed, worthy of respect. Click to enlarge.

Conversely, these little popcorn-kernel shaped clouds with their blue-raspberry backdrop just said, “happy” to me, as they danced in the sky. Click to enlarge.

There may be no oceans in the desert, but this sunset-painted cloud washed over the hills behind our house like a pink surf. Click to enlarge.

Clouds also have power. They can both cast shadows and reveal light. They can transform into funnel clouds. They can disappear as quickly as they’ve come. And – I kid you not – as I was writing this post, I was reminded of something else they can do: drop quarter-sized, damaging hail (Macho and Niña weren’t happy as those ice pellets ricocheted off of the five skylights in the house. The tornado warning was also lifted shortly thereafter. Tornadoes in the desert?! Was it something I wrote?).

Some of the hail that accumulated at our water collection tank just minutes after I typed the words "funnel clouds." Check out the video below.

For writers, for everyone. No matter where we live, I think we can all agree to the hypnotic, awe-inspiring effect of clouds. They evoke mood, tell stories, inspire, color their surroundings. Isn’t this what good fiction also does?

What do you imagine when you look into the skies? Do you see the sinister side of nature – the ability of those clouds to do harm? Or do clouds inspire you, illuminating your hopes and dreams?

How do I feel? (Thanks for asking). I smile when I look up into the skies – so massive, and such a reminder of my smallness in this world. And sometimes, when those clouds transform to an eerie shade of lemon or a shoe-polish black, I still smile – perhaps with a quivering lip and a pinch of apprehension – but with wonder and appreciation.

The first time I saw one of these critters during a jog, I thought it looked like something from a sci-fi movie with all its knobs and protrusions. But after some research, I learned that it is the precursor to something quite beautiful.

Aug. 6 -- This little guy slinked on over to the door and literally hung around, all day, despite our in-and-out-the-door activity. Click to enlarge.

When this fella crawled up on the side of the door, I figured it would inch away like the other 8 million caterpillars roaming our desert paradise. But it didn’t. It parked right there, next to the metal door frame.

So I watched it all day. And watched it some more. Then I gently poked it, watching it recoil ever so slightly, and I figured it was dying since it had stopped moving.

But behold, the very next day, it had transformed into this:

Aug. 7 -- What a difference a day makes! Commence the pupation and chrysalis stages. How insane is that tiny thread that he managed to lasso around himself so he wouldn’t fall from the wall? Click to enlarge.

Then just two days later, the chrysalis had transformed, again, into this:

Aug. 9 -- At this point, I was pretty sure this thing had stopped its metamorphosis due to the hardening and darkening of the chyrsalis (and the complete lack of movement). Click to enlarge.

For the next week, I kept telling hubby that our little science gift from Mother Nature had succumbed to the heat. “It’s all going on inside,” he said. “You have to be patient.” Me, patient? Does this man not know the woman he married?

But I have to confess: I thought I could see the ridges of eyes forming on top of the now-brown pod, the faint traces of patterned wings emerging under that armor that resembled a raised-relief map of ridges and horns. Nah. It was just my geeky wishful thinking. The critter was dead.

Or was it? A short nine days later, I just happened to rush out the door (hoping I hadn’t missed the garbage truck). Upon my return, I saw this:

Aug. 17 -- Boy was I ticked when I realized that this pipevine swallowtail butterfly was probably emerging from the chyrsalis the very second I slammed out the door. I could have videotaped the entire rebirth! Click to enlarge.

Even though I missed baby’s first steps (heh heh), I was awestruck – especially at how this butterfly, rightfully rumpled as it made its way into the world, could even fit in those cramped quarters. It seemed to defy logic – especially learning that only about 10 percent of caterpillars even make it to the pupating (resting) stage.

The first few attempts to shake out those wings were clumsy and actually landed him on the concrete, crawling toward me, crawling over my leg, up the camera strap, on my arm, over my shoulders, on my neck.

Only about 15 minutes after emerging, the butterfly flapped its wings and clung to the door. Click to enlarge.

I love the wonder of nature, and that I was privy to the unfolding of this little life, the light pressure of butterfly feet dancing on my skin.

Butterfly with floppy wings on my arm - minutes after emerging. Click to enlarge.

I was right! If you look closely at this now-empty shell, you can see the faint lines that marked the outlines of the butterfly's wings.

For Writers: The butterfly is a metaphorical wonderland. I could relate this creature – and this personal experience – to a writer’s metamorphosis (or to the stages of a story); to the cocoon some of us feel we live in as isolated writers; to opening our wings as writers; or even to life and death themes (of our ideas, of our characters), given the adult butterfly’s short lifespan of only about two weeks.

But I’m curious … what do you think when you read this post and view these photos? How does the butterfly relate to your writing journey, your writing process, to writing in general? What lessons does the pipevine swallowtail offer, if any?