Metamorphosis: a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one

I am surrounded by the kindest, most thoughtful people. I do NOT deserve them (Cue Wayne and Garth's "We're not worthy" bit). I am not sure how a lazy, apathetic, unmotivated, negative gal such as myself ends up as the recipient of selfless generosity and constant grace. 

But here we are.

My friend Heidi is an excellent example of this. For the past several years, she has insisted I take a container of caterpillar chrysalises for my classroom so that my students can experience the magical emergence of Monarch butterflies. I am far from receptive of this idea. It's just one more thing that I'm going to mess up. "No, no," Heidi assures me. "We'll do everything." 

And it's true. She and her amazing daughter are there from attachment to emergence. Literally, all I have to do is release the butterflies. It's pretty rough.

This year was particularly magical.

My 4th graders were, of course, enchanted. Wiggly and wonderful...squealing and spellbound...tickled
and transfixed. We sang "Let it go," as our new-born beauties flexed their wings, soaking in the sun before soaring into the air. We were scientists, naturalists, and poets.

It was a Friday afternoon and several green cocoons remained, swaying from their slender silken filaments...two butterflies had emerged earlier in the day but their wet wings required a few more hours of dry-time. Heidi had offered to whisk them away but I asked if I could take them to my mother. Heidi, thrilled to share the results of her summer of meticulous labor...maintaining the milkweed, gathering the caterpillars, feeding them, cleaning up after them, ensuring their solid and study attachments...the container she'd given me was labeled "9" if that gives you any clue to how many butterflies she and Alison release each season.

Like the butterflies, my mother has also been on quite a transformative journey. For the last few years she has undergone many changes, enduring a cycle of unimaginable loss...the death of her beloved husband, leaving her home, plagued by memory issues and confusion. For my mother, moments of joy are fleeting and few.

Heidi's butterflies captured my mom's attention immediately. She admired their beauty...fixated on how frail their delicate wings appeared. I smiled...realizing how very similar my mother was to the very creatures she was inspecting. For some reason (C'mon...we know the reason), our baby butterflies were not in too big a hurry to depart...content to remain with us for awhile...resting on a weathered hand as Mom held her breath, afraid to disturb it. She laughed as one made a hair ornament on top of my head. Froze, statue-still, so I could capture a picture of the orange and black beauty against her lilac-colored slacks. For a moment, my mom was happy. She experienced joy. How grateful I am to Heidi, Alison, and God for that precious occurrence. 

And still, we weren't done. Two chandeliers remained...the brilliant green dimming...darkening and soon, the last two butterflies arrived.

So, Sunday morning, before church, Brad and I both set a butterfly each free...using our morning glory
patch as their launching site. Like before, they lingered longer...their waving wings rivaling the brilliant blooms woven into our vined screen. 

What an incredible gift that Heidi gave us. A gift that I didn't know I wanted or needed...but Heidi knew. And she wouldn't let me say, "No."  Thank you, Heidi.

We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

~LeeAnn Taylor

The continuing story of the morning glories...

Again, I blame Katriel.

Several years ago, when I had stopped by her house to pick her up for our daily work commute, I noticed some large, brilliantly colored flowers climbing a trellis alongside her house. Naturally, I investigated. 

They were morning glories. 

They were HUGE! The size of my hand! 

In my excitement, I may have embellished a bit to my husband. "They were the size of dinner plates," I exclaimed. (Small dinner plates, maybe. Saucers.)

Morning glories have a special place in my heart. My mom effortlessly grew morning glories in vibrant pinks, whites, blues and purples woven along the metal railings of our front steps when I was a little girl.

Knowing that I enjoy ADMIRING flowers but not actually GROWING them myself, Katriel carefully offered me some of her seeds. I eagerly snatched them up as this could be the beginning of the fulfillment of my floral fantasy to robe the entryway of our empty cow tunnel with vined flowers. 

Just as I'd hoped, Brad Mosiman toiled for hours, laboring to construct a large, narrow garden box, wrestling up a sturdy trellis, and digging a trough for me to daintily place each of my precious seeds...(Imagine an adorable winged fairy sprinkling pixie dust).

We diligently checked each day...only to be disappointed. Some straggly vines emerged but were confused about what they were supposed to do. We helpfully guided them into the trellis. And waited...

By the end of that summer, our efforts yielded ONE off-color white morning glory and a burning resentment for Katriel that would last through the winter.

But the Mosimans would not be deterred.

We researched and purchased our own seeds...buying a variety to hedge our bets. Katriel, obviously repentant, offered up some nutrient-rich fertilizer while Brad and I read the planting instructions carefully. "It says to soak the seeds," I reported dubiously. "Do you want a repeat of next year or do you want to change the destiny of your dinner-plate-sized flowers?" my husband snapped."

So we soaked them.

Then came the crushing blow that the endless current of Covid money would soon turn to a trickle so our poor little country had to find ways to spend it quickly...obviously, our cow tunnel had to go.

What?

We (Brad) carefully moved each baby morning glory sprout to its new destination beneath our tall pine tree. Our already low expectations grabbed a shovel to dig even deeper. 

And then...

A pink puckered rectum shyly pushed its way out between the throngs of vines and papery green leaves.

(I'm really hoping to win some sort of literary award for the poetic nuances of that sentence.)

I danced around the yard and then took a zillion pictures of it for posterity. My family, naturally, was thrilled. Katriel, I'm certain, was seething in envy.

Each morning brought new surprises. I dutifully sent up-dated pictures to California. My daughters and Douglas clamored for more. I considered starting a newsletter. Or alerting a news agency. Or maybe offering up guided tours for a nominal fee.

My initial goal was a solid screen of vined flowers. After last year, I'd adjusted my expectations to a more realistic two or three flowered appearances. But now...? "I want them to reach beyond the trellis," I told Brad, "I want them to run wild in the pine tree."

And they DID!

It was an amazing summer. More than I could have asked for. It checked all of my boxes:  

• Nostalgic warm fuzzies of my childhood. 
• A breath-taking backyard. 
• Revenge (Take THAT, Katriel!). 

Now...on to next year and our continued goal for gargantuan, dinner-plate-sized morning glories. Based on this year's success, I be-leaf that our dreams are firmly rooted in reality. Seriously, I'm not just sprouting off.

 

"Amy, why are you sitting by an empty field full of seagulls?" Just beak-ause.

 "Amy, where do you get the ideas for your blogs?" I am occasionally asked by one of the four people who read my silly little ramblings.

I sigh. "Oh honey. They write themselves."

Case-in-point:

For the last twenty years, my friend Joan has faithfully followed my classroom odyssey from the front of the building, with easy parking lot access...to the back of the building, with handy playground placement...to my now-infuriatingly-inaccessible-interior assignment. "I don't know how to find you," Joan complained in frustration, "Short of repelling down from the roof." My latest room has resulted in fewer visits from my friend so imagine my delight when, on my way out of the building on Friday, I encountered her, walking in!

"I'm going to watch my great-niece play soccer and thought I'd pop in," Joan said. I immediately volunteered to keep her company. Sporty events are not my area of strength or comfort but I was game to try on such a lovely afternoon. Joan and I made a side-line trip to gather up chairs and snacks and then sought out the field of play. There were several pockets of people spotting the school's generous acreage so we walked over for some assistance. Obviously, they thought I was lost. Our new Australian physical education teacher interrupted the interrogation of former students wondering if I was just seeking inspiration for a nature-based haiku. She said some helpful words and sent us on our way but I was so entranced by her delightful accent that I hadn't actually listened to her directions. Fortunately, Joan was on the ball.

We arrived at the directed field, filled with seagulls. "How about while we wait for the game to start, we sit over there in the shade?" I suggested. We wrestled our chairs out, tucked in the 90 degree angle by the playground, the lush branches of a generous maple providing a cool roof over our heads. We popped open our beverages and began catching up.

"Hi, Mrs. Mosiman!" a small voice shrieked from the swings. I waved.

"Mrs. Mosiman!" came a roar from over by the rock wall.

"Mrs. Mosiman! Mrs. Mosiman!" a kid screamed down the slide.

"What are you doing here?" my little roving reporters wanted to know.

Sigh.

Finally, my friend Michelle wandered over. 

An alert administrator with a talent for reading the room, Michelle had searched her surroundings quickly, trying to determine why Amy Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field of seagulls on a Friday afternoon after school. It was a mystery. Time to investigate.

"Mrs. Mosiman, what are you doing?" Michelle asked. She annoys me because she is so beautiful. And kind. And smart. And supportive. And helpful. Ugh.

"Watching soccer," I told her.

Wasn't it obvious?

Michelle frowned. 

Joan took pity on her and explained that we were there to watch her niece play soccer at 5. "That nice new gym coach with the Australian accent told us to go to this field," I added.

"Amy," Michelle scolded, "She is NOT Australian. She's from England."

She sounded Australian to me.

Michelle frowned again and then begin typing authoritatively on her cellular device.

"I hate to tell you this, but the game doesn't actually start until 6:30."

I glared at Joan who groaned while Michelle attempted not to giggle.

Naturally, at this point, another administrator (who lacks MANY of Michelle's amazing qualities) drove slowly by in the school's side-by-side to investigate why Mrs. Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field full of seagulls on a Friday afternoon.

This was turning into QUITE the spectacle.

Joan called it when the first mosquito arrived (presumably to ask why Mrs. Mosiman was sitting in front of an empty field of seagulls on a Friday afternoon).

We packed up our chairs and made our sad walk of shame back to the parking lot. Before I left though, I made sure to cheer on our loyal players. "You go, gulls!"

"July Amy" enacting revenge on "September Katriel" (I hope Japan was worth it)

Amy-in-the-now (Present-tense Amy) is always acutely aware of Future Amy.  Amy-in-the-now knows that Future Amy is going to want a snackie-snack in a few hours but is too lazy to go grocery shopping. Present-tense Amy knows that Future Amy is a grumple-saurus in the morning but still stays up until 2 am reading or thumbing through reels. Amy-in-the-now knows that if she doesn't use the massaging torture device on her foot before bed, Future Amy will be limping all the next day but...ouchie. Future Amy routinely detests Amy-in-the-now but never so much as she did this past Friday...

Carpool text to Katriel:  Who the f-dances at 8:15 in the morning???

To be fair...this was Katriel's fault just as much as it was Amy-back-in- July's. Katriel selfishly and irresponsibly decided to take some time off this summer to visit Japan...forcing me to take her place on the character education committee. In her absence, I attended two fun-filled days with happy, positive people determined to change the world for the better. I was miserable.

"Amy," my arch-nemesis...the bold and bubbly Erin called, "Come sit with me." Could this get any worse?

Oh yeah, it could.

We needed...a theme.

This was joyously discussed for hours. We landed on the Hollywood Walk of Fame...respectful, responsible, safe, and scholarly All-Stars parading down the red carpet. Posters were made. Helpful worksheets compiled. Folders filled. I valiantly attempted to keep us grounded in reality. What happened to the good old days when kids were content with gold stars? I stared off into space. I sulked. I scribbled immature illustrations in my notebook. I remained resolutely silent. And then...I began to sabotage. 

As our friend, Sarah, labored heroically, creating a 10-foot tall thermometer to reflect student success, I commented on what I viewed as a perfectly related phallic connection. Oh...I'm sorry. You meant it to look like that? And off I skipped. Maybe this day wasn't going to be a complete waste.

Next on my list was Erin who was up-dating her annual teacher luncheon schedule. The bane of my existence. Erin insists that the luncheons are good for morale and building community. Yeah...my regular dinners rotate around stale cereal and sandwiches. My morale is definitely elevated trying to plan, buying the ingredients for (and forgetting half of them), and inevitably ruining the dish I'm supposed to bring in for Erin's luncheon. "Here," Erin said, pulling up a companion chair next to her's, "You can help me." My help consisted in re-branding her adorably-named luncheon days. "Soup Day" became "What a crock of sh--" Day. I was definitely feeling better.

And then I made a critical error.

I contributed.

Without consulting...thinking about...or caring about--Future Amy. Specifically, September Amy...who is notoriously overwhelmed, afraid, and freaked out.

It sounded like a good idea.

Staff dancing to The Script's Hall of Fame in the opening assembly. There was a super-easy-to-follow on-line tutorial.

Fun. Energetic. On-theme.

Katriel, home from her adventures in Japan, was stunned by all the damage I had caused in her absence.

Really?

"We're doing what?" she gasped.

"Not we," I chortled, "You. I was just an interim member of the committee."

Apparently the committee had other ideas.

Dance practice was held in my room the day before the assembly.

Katriel, knowing that I lack rhythm, grace, and kinesthetic memory, helped me write out the steps on my dry erase board before everyone arrived. We argued over some of the wording...Katriel growing exasperated by the third move as I giggled over every suggestion she offered. She finally banned the word "tap" but couldn't find a suitable replacement for "knock" so she just had to deal with my comments each time we double knocked in each corner of our invisible Dutch doors. Come on. You start the sequence by knocking up. I insisted the next move be called "Scoop up a pile of leaves and toss them exuberantly into the air" which caused Katriel to start looking for affordable flights back to Japan. 

Between our helpful written instructions and the on-line tutorial, everyone was feeling more-or-less confident. One member of the group kept throwing us off by yelling "Woo!" during the lunge sequences but, other-than-that, we were ready to go.

Obviously, my and Katriel's carpool ride to school the next morning was grimly quiet. I don't know what she was mad about. This was all her fault.

I hit the Pepsi machine before I even opened my classroom door.

Erin wrestled my liquid courage from my hand, on stage.

We did it. I don't remember thunderous applause but I'm sure it was there. Everything was a blur.

Katriel glared at me as we made our way back to our auditorium seats. "You are completely responsible for this," I said, matter-of-factly. "How do you figure that?" she hissed at me in the dark. A 4th grader shushed her, reminding Katriel of her auditorium manners.

"Plan A:  Book exciting trip to Japan...without Amy 

Plan B:  Slough off work responsibilities onto Amy

Plan C:  Ignore Amy's threats that she will somehow Get you back

Plan D:  Drive to airport, leaving Amy fuming...vowing revenge

Plan E."

July-Katriel brought me a thoughtful gift upon her return from Japan.

July-Amy set a snare to "thank" Katriel for the opportunity to sit in for her on the character building committee.

Sometimes the best laid plans are laid to waste (and waltz and watusi).

Konnichi-what?