For as many years as the butterfly exhibit has made its Spring appearance at Frederik Meijer Gardens, not until this year had I taken it in. Not that I didn’t think I would enjoy it, I am rather in to bugs. Just ask my parents and sisters. I’m sure they could provide a world of great stories and blog content.

I loved the butterflies, of course, with their colors and flitting and all. But as in all things, I enjoyed viewing the greater scene, as if a play on stage. The tall and spacious greenhouse-made-rain forest was misty and warm, well-suited for bamboos and butterflies. And the meandering—there was a lot of meandering—folks going nowhere in particular. Necks craned and extended. Eyes up and out, never down. Hands stretched outward, hoping Mr. Emperor Swallowtail would mutually consent to ignoring the “no touching” signs.

I caught myself hanging out by the pupae for a long time, just watching them hang there. A few were actively emerging, though it was a long ordeal. Most were just suspended, motionless, their own emergence into adulthood held off for a better day, perhaps tomorrow.

There was no rushing this day. Visitors weren’t checking their smartphones. The butterflies: no agenda except to please. And those butterflies-to-be seemed in no hurry either. No hurry to impress.

Are there lessons here for me?

I think yes. I must chill out and allow maturation and emergence its due time. This is not without its angst, mind you. I would love to help chicks hatch, to help seeds push up the earth. But I must continually remind myself that the journey… the painful, struggling journey is what makes emergence all that more glorious.