Emergence

After all of the downpours yesterday and overnight, area streams and rivers were extremely swollen. The Cuyahoga River was in hundred-year flood territory in some places. Some of the usual places where I might have hiked in search of spring wildflowers were now off-limits without waders. However, with the temperature above 60 and the sun shining, I thought I might try to find a mourning cloak (Nymphalis antiopa) butterfly which usually hangs out in wooded areas.

Most people believe that all butterflies migrate like monarchs do, but we actually have some species in Ohio that hibernate, or overwinter, as adults, including the mourning cloak. Eastern commas and question marks (I'm sure I will discuss in a future blog post because who doesn't love insects that are named after punctuation) also fit into this category. They take refuge in tree crevices or under leaf litter, which besides laziness, is a good reason not to rake the leaves in my yard. Save the butterflies!

Mourning Cloak in Mantua

I was yammering on to my hiking partner six feet away about something inconsequential when I saw the familiar dark flutter in front of me and felt the familiar flutter in my heart. Like a four-year-old, I exclaimed, "There's a mourning cloak!" and chased after it while removing my camera lens. It landed on the grass in front of me, just long enough for me to take its photo. Its bottom left wing was a bit tattered. The butterfly life isn't easy. It alighted again and joined another one circling above me. Pure delight. Pure grace. They flew off into the woods and on we hiked.

Seeing a mourning cloak at this time of year and in that place was very much expected. Nature is cyclical, but perhaps the universe knew that I needed this boost. Two years ago when I received a job offer after nine months of job searching and interviewing, I made a SoulCollage® card that prominently featured a mourning cloak rising above the pines. It symbolized newness after a long period of hibernation and preparation. Twentieth-century British entomologist L. Hugh Newman thought the mourning cloak's pattern reminded him of a girl tired of grieving who let a few inches of her bright dress show below her mourning attire. Perhaps to the casual observer, the name mourning cloak implies some kind of sadness, but for me, these brownish insects trimmed in purple and gold bring nothing but joy and hope for the months to come.