Heavy Rains Bring a Burst of White Butterflies

                             

Although some years there are hardly any butterflies, this November there have been hundreds of Great Southern Whites fluttering around our house in St. John. They aren’t all white though. You can see dark wing edges on the top side, and the underside wings tend to be different shades of yellow.

 

Some people say they feel like they are walking around in a Disney movie when the butterflies swoop around, and up close the butterflies’ faces do look a bit like cartoon characters. 

A distinguishing characteristic of Great Southern White butterflies is their turquoise antenna tips. 

Where do they all come from? It seems like a miracle when they show up and of course in some ways it is. This year I have been trying to learn more about what’s going on with them. 

 

At times you can see them over water, and there are some types of Great Southern White butterflies that do actually migrate, at least for short distances. However, the ones in the Virgin Islands – Ascia monuste eubotea –  are home grown and not migratory. But they are definitely seasonal.    

 

Many insects have seasonal cycles of activity and then seem to disappear when environmental conditions are unfavorable – like when the weather turns cold up north. In the islands, it is the dry season that makes life difficult for insects, and some have learned to wait out the droughts in various stages of development. 

 

In the case of these white butterflies, it seems that their eggs go into a kind of dormancy called diapause during the dry season, and then revive and hatch when there is lots of rain again. That’s when many of the plants enjoy rapid growth spurts as well, and some plants and trees will also put out flowers as part of their own reproductive cycles. Those flowers provide nectar that feeds the new butterflies, while the butterflies in turn provide pollination services for the plants. Synchronization makes the ecological system work.    

 

One of the main host plants for Great Southern White butterflies in the Virgin Islands is the native Limber Caper. Host plants often have chemicals in their leaves that make the caterpillars and butterflies unpalatable to predators. 

 

When I went out searching in the yard, sure enough, I found little patches of tiny yellow eggs on the tops of some of the limber caper leaves. 

                        

  

When the eggs hatch, the caterpillars eat the leaves. If there are enough leaves on the plant, the caterpillars thrive, and the limber caper is not significantly harmed. 

 

                         

  

Some of the host plants did seem to be overloaded with caterpillars and chewed up leaves, while others were relatively untouched. 

 

                         

I brought one of the bigger caterpillars inside to see what it would look like in its pupa stage. I thought that with all those butterflies around there would be a whole bunch of pupa cases, but I only found one empty case hanging on the underside of a leaf. 

 

The caterpillar I brought inside was done eating limber caper leaves and wasted no time starting to transform into a pupa. 

 

Then about 10 days later a new butterfly emerged – with just a few days to fly around in the sunshine, drink nectar, find a mate, and produce new eggs. 

 

The only times these butterflies sit still for more than a few seconds is when they gather to drink from puddles or wet areas. Then when they get close, sometimes one thing leads to another, and the cycle of life continues. Until the days get dry again. 

Butterflies attach back-to-back when they find a mate.   

 

When the rainy season has passed, there is a point at which the butterflies producing eggs receive an environmental signal, and release neurohormones that somehow initiate the diapause in the eggs they lay. Those eggs will be resistant to desiccation, and will wait quietly until the next rainy season arrives before springing into action. 

 

The process really does seem miraculous.    

 

Searching for Sweetgrass in Maine

 

Since I had organized a discussion earlier in the summer about the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, I thought I would look for some Sweetgrass while I was up in Maine in August. Kimmerer is a botanist and Native American writer who offers stories “that allow us to imagine a different relationship in which people and land are good medicine for each other”. 

 

In her tradition, Sweetgrass is viewed as the “sweet-smelling hair of Mother Earth”. Native Americans have traditionally burned dried braids of Sweetgrass for smudging or purifying ceremonies, to attract positive spirit energy. The grass can also be used to make medicinal teas, and for basket weaving.   

 

The scientific name for Sweetgrass is Hierochloe odorata – meaning fragrant, holy grass. It is widespread in the northern US states, especially near wetlands and across the prairies. 

 

I figured I should be able to find some near my family’s house in mid-coast Maine, but I didn’t know where to look.  

 

There are lots of kinds of grasses around, and I had never thought to learn anything about them before. 

 

I examined some grass samples on our family property, and it was interesting to learn the names of some of the different types I had seen so often over the years, even though they weren’t what I was looking for. 

 

I read that Sweetgrass likes moist soil and went to check out a patch I remembered down by the marsh through a trail in the woods. That turned out to be scratchy on my fingers and not sweet, so I left it alone.

 

                                 

 

 

My cousin who has a nursery business further down the coast knew of something called Sweet Flag and kindly delivered a bunch of that for me to consider.

 

                               

 

These stalks had fat ridges in the center that made them difficult to braid, and smelled more swampy than sweet. Still, I appreciated the gift and didn’t want to discard them. 

 

I ended up cutting thin ribbons from the sides of the stems and these were flexible enough to be easily bent and braided. I shaped the rough braids into a circle, sewing them in place like the beginning of a braided rug, similar to the ones my grandmother had made out of felt. I read that colonial women in this area may have begun to braid rugs after observing the traditional grass mats made by Native American women.

 

                                

 

A few days later I visited a friend a bit further north who has amazing garden and a broad knowledge about plants. Finally, someone who knew about Sweetgrass. She even had some growing in a pot on her porch. It smelled wonderful, a bit like vanilla. She had ordered it from a catalogue, though, and did not know where it might grow locally.  

 

                                   

 

She was generous enough to allow me to pick enough Sweetgrass stalks to make a braid. I read that traditionally there are seven stalks in each of the sections of the braid. These represent the gifts of wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility and truth, which help people learn to live in harmony with the earth.   

                                                

 

Kimmerer writes that “the sweetest way to braid the grass is to have someone else hold the end so that you pull gently against each other, all the while leaning in, chatting and laughing…”

I engaged my husband to hold the end of the bunch of Sweetgrass while I was braiding, and we did in fact laugh and chat while we were doing it. 

 

I hung the braid by the stairs in Maine and enjoyed the surprise of the scent in the house each time I passed by. 

 

I was still wondering where it might grow wild in the area, but got busy with other activities.

When we went hiking on a wild offshore conservation island, I examined a bright, swampy area. Beautiful grass but not sweet. 

 

                          

 

Then, a couple of days before returning to New York, I stopped to see another friend nearby. I mentioned my Sweetgrass quest, and he said he actually knew where to find some – there was a place along the bank of a tidal inlet where Native American people he knew sometimes came to harvest it. 

 

 

My husband went with me to help locate the unmarked path, which led through scrub and brambles onto a sunny area filled with what people sometimes call ‘salt hay’. 

 

                          

 

I started examining and sniffing the different plants growing there, following what looked like tracks from someone tamping down the grasses by walking around sometime earlier. 

                       

 

Eventually, back near the tree line, I spotted a patch of low grass in among a taller group, partially shaded, that looked similar to what I had gotten from my friend’s pot. And when I picked a strand, it had that now-familiar sweet smell. Success!

 

                                      

 

I was careful to give thanks to the plants for allowing me to harvest a few of their stalks.  

 

I am also grateful to Robin Kimmerer for inspiring me to learn more about the land my ancestors settled on, the names of the plants growing there, and the history of the people who inhabited that land for centuries before my European ancestors arrived.

 

Indigenous stories and practices are rich in wisdom, but the history of native people since Europeans came has been one of violence and terrible losses. However, although the current condition of the earth may lead to feelings of despair, Kimmerer offers the possibility of working towards restoration as an antidote to despair – with the goal of restoring a life-sustaining form of economy and civilization. 

 

In order to heal the earth, and our relationship with it, Kimmerer challenges us to set aside the ways of the colonists and become indigenous to the places we live. That would involve acting with respect in our relationships with each other, as well as towards plants and other species that provide us with gifts of food, medicines and materials.

 

It also means viewing the land not as a commodity but as our teacher, healer and benefactor, which is now in need of our help.