Small miracles

       Though their jade green coverings are striking, shimmering, and studded with gold, somehow the chrysalises blend docilely into their surroundings. Each time I pass them, hanging there quietly upon our kitchen counter, I stop and stare a while. I'm admiring their intricate design, but I'm also reassuring myself that they are still there. They dangle there, gingerly, in complete silence. I scarcely notice them in my own house, I'm certain I'd never detect them if I were walking past them outdoors. They are especially difficult to see while the demands of motherhood are ever-present (and much noisier).
       This semester I've been taking a biology course. The instructor is an imaginative man who employs a variety of methods in teaching the concepts, everything from bringing in live termite specimens for observation. to showing clips from Monty Python. It's been an interesting class. One video he showed really got me to thinking about my perception - or, rather, my lack thereof! Check it out here (Just the first 2 minutes and 40 seconds). Each view it shows is magnified by 10 in the next scene, moving from the microscopic, to the observable universe. As we watched, the professor asked us to note which frames of reference we were most familiar with. He wanted to illustrate the fact that our point of view really affects the way we think, and boy, did I get the message! My comfort zones, or familiar frames of reference were a mere 3 out of the 40 shown! That is to say that from the range of the smallest known particles of life to the wide expanse that is our galaxy and beyond -- I have the equivalent of about a teaspoon worth of perception. And that's being pretty generous. I mean, that teaspoon includes everything from a single drop of water to an entire city. And though I can conceive of such things, the fact of the matter is that most of the time my thoughts hardly extend beyond my own nose, let alone out my front door.
       While watching the video, I was most astonished at two things: First, how long I had to watch before encountering anything familiar, and secondly, how much more there was to watch after the split-second that summed up all I was familiar with!

       I pondered on this throughout the month of September during a family camping trip. We had arranged to have our carpets cleaned and planned to head out for some wilderness fun while they dried. Our gleaming little chrysalises were ripening and the butterflies would most likely be emerging while we were gone. But it would only be overnight, and a mesh hamper placed over our now dried milkweed stalk assured us that should the monarch's hatch, they would not be hurt or lost flying about the house.

       We explored mountain trails alongside streams. The children scrambled up ahead, collecting sticks, leaves and rocks. We found animal tracks in the muddy banks, a name carved into a log bridge, and an imaginary mystery began to unfold - We became super spies, attempting to make it to the rendezvous point before the enemies could intercept us!
       All the while, I was mesmerized by this new realization that at any given moment, there was so much activity, so much life surrounding me that was beyond my perception. We heard crickets, chirping continually, but never saw a sign of them. We heard water, trickling, gurgling,sometimes hidden from view. Even when I could see it coursing over the rocky stream bed, I was now conscious of the fact that my human eyes were incapable of perceiving all the life that teemed within it. Still, we tried to take it all in, paying closer attention to nature's intricate details.

    

        When we arrived home, a miraculous surprise greeted us. One Monarch had emerged. We released it immediately, not knowing how long it had been without food. It fluttered away instantly, too camera-shy for a picture. But the next morning, our second chrysalis was empty. And this one turned out to be much more photogenic.

              I guess that's the way with miracles. They take place all around us, even though we, with our limited perception, may rarely even notice them. Sometimes small, even microscopic, but no less real. They may appear fleeting, so that we wonder if in fact anything of significance has taken place, or if we are merely imagining things. But from my perspective, though limited it may be, I believe that if we are humble enough to acknowledge the workings of an unseen universe, no miracle, no matter how small, will ever be lost on us. As we recognize the minute miracles that stitch together our lives, we will become that much wiser. Our perspective will expand. We will be more alive and more at peace than we had ever realized was possible.

       How's that for Biology 101?