On pooping out caterpillar toxins before butterflies can fly: Transformation is a Journey, Not a Single Step

I walked into my office for a Zoom meeting, something I’ve done without incident hundreds of times. But not this time. There was a butterfly on the inside of the window. Astonishing, but practical action was needed. It was cold, so the butterfly was easy to catch. Wondering how she had got in, I cupped her in my hands and breathed on her till she was warm enough to fly, then released her into the garden. I watched her soar up into the cloudy blue sky. Mission accomplished.

I went back into my office. I noticed another butterfly. And another… six butterflies, scattered around the room. Mesmerised, I took photos. Then I caught the six in turn, and put them in the garden. Close inspection revealed empty chrysalises on the walls, ceiling, and frame of a painting of Eileen O’Connor, the real-life heroine who inspired me so much that she transformed me into an amateur portrait painter and a published author. There are no coincidences, and I can’t think of a better place for a caterpillar to earn its wings than resting there.

The butterflies safely rescued, I assumed – wrongly – that this was an isolated incident and went back to normal.

Until 16 days later: more butterflies. Twenty-five days after that. Ten days. Four days… repeated hatchings of Nature’s flying miracles fluttering at my window hoping to get out to the garden beyond. Just when this recurring astonishment and wonder risked becoming monotonous, a crisis refocused my attention to pinpoint precision.

I had assumed it was over, and decided to dust the bookshelf while I waited for yet another Zoom meeting to start. Fortunately, I noticed the butterfly clinging drunkenly to the spine of a book, before the casually flicked duster reached it. It didn’t look at all well. By now, I had learned that butterflies affected by cold look sluggish and respond well to warmth. I turned on the heating and resumed my anxious vigil. I offered the butterfly my finger, and it crawled painfully, but without fear up my hand. It was clear there was something very wrong with it, so I carefully carried it to my desk and encouraged it onto a tissue box placed to catch the warmth from the air conditioner.

Its wings were curved over its body in a limp C-shape, so heavy that it could barely keep its balance. Its abdomen was bloated and swollen. I’d never seen anything like it and had no idea what to do to help the poor creature.

Then, something strange happened. It excreted a drop of clear fluid. Pooped it, I suppose, as I suspect butterflies don’t have kidneys. A surprising number of drops emerged over the next 15 or so minutes. The butterfly’s wings became lighter, and stood upright, their veins becoming prominent. It could stand straight and balance itself, and its abdomen was no longer bloated.

I urgently interrupted my Zoom colleagues with a progress report and held the tissue box by the camera so they could admire the liquid caterpillar poop. And suddenly, it took its maiden flight to the inside of the window overlooking the garden, guided there by who knows what inspiration.

I never knew that when a butterfly gets its wings, they are so heavy it can’t hold them up until it has pooped out all the metabolised caterpillar juice and traumas of metamorphosis that no longer serve it. And only then, it can fly.

Eileen O’Connor’s courage and resilience in the face of devastating illness and disability, and her endless love and compassion, saw her establish a home nursing organisation to care for the poor in Sydney’s slums – from the cocoon of own sickbed! She also weathered hardship, grief and persecution from church authorities before her tragically early death at the age of twenty-eight, and, instead of growing wings, she earned Vatican approval as a Servant of God and is under investigation for sainthood.

If you love an inspirational story and need a dose of transformation, pick up a copy of Every Inch a Saint.