WRIGGLED TO WINGED: AN AESOPIAN TALE OF METAMORPHOSIS

 

From my lofty eighth story balcony I am writing about the lowly wriggling caterpillar. Reading other writers, it seems the caterpillar has been looked down upon (from as far up as Heaven apparently) for quite some time.

1 KINGS 8:37

“If there be in the land famine, if there be pestilence, blasting, mildew, locust, or if there be caterpillar … “

A dear friend, and ofttimes colleague, told me a story about a phone call she received with regard to a giant caterpillar discovered in a back yard in small town Saskatchewan.

If there's something strange
In your neighbourhood
Who you gonna call?

If there's something weird
And it don't look good
Who you gonna call? (Ghostbusters theme song, by Ray Parker Jr.)

Who you gonna call?  THE ENTOMOLOGY FAMILY RACKOW, THAT’S WHO!

The call took place last September, and there was, indeed, something strange and something weird in the neighbourhood.  Something the shape and size and colour of a hot dog was crawling around in a back yard in the town of Pilot Butte.  The ENTOMOLOGY FAMILY RACKOW (mixing the movie metaphors, GHOSTBUSTERS and SPACE FAMILY ROBINSON) rushed to the rescue.  A terrarium filled with six inches of potting soil and a supply of leaves was arranged immediately by the Rackows, becoming the new abode for the newly discovered Achemon Sphinx caterpillar.  The Rackow family aptly and affectionately nicknamed their Achemon Sphinx, LEAF ERICKSON.

 

LEAF ERICKSON. VERY. CLEVER. INDEED. 

About this nickname.  Maybe (for sure, I’m sure) it was inspired by Lief Ericson, the Norse explorer (after all, leaf-eating, Leaf, was found exploring in a back yard).  But his surname, Erickson, hints at other possibilities.  Maybe it was inspired by Erick Erikson, the German-American psychologist (Rebecca, matriarch of the Entomology Family Rackow, has an honours degree in Psychology); or just maybe from Milton Erickson, the famous American, and MY favourite, hypnotherapist.  Hmmm.  Of the three, the spelling of Leaf’s surname matches only that of Milton’s.  Chasing this surname down some psychological rabbit holes whilst mixing metaphors is, I know, really poetaster, but rather fun. 

Whoever his namesake, Leaf was a wriggler caterpillar, and according to his nature, would eventually grow a pair of wings and fly away as a moth.  And Leaf’s story, on a continuum of sorts, is all of our stories.  In our baby beginnings, we are all of us wrigglers.   And as sure as sunrises and sunsets, some of us stay wriggled on the ground, while others of us manage to wax winged for the clouds.

The Rackows were hoping Leaf would metamorphose.  They were hoping to save Leaf’s life so he could eventually crawl out of the dirt, spread his wings, and fly into the sun.  For Leaf and his natural ilk, the sky is the limit.

Today I am writing that such a metamorphosis need not be limited to just creature insects and amphibians.

Metaphorically, metamorphosis can most certainly apply to the behaviours of humans.  And when I try to attach the science of metamorphosis to humans, I am not referring to any majority extrinsically-pressured cultural rites of passage, for example, the expectation of getting a driver’s licence at 16, or going for a beer at a bar upon the age of majority.

I am referring only to those solitary, intrinsically-pressured achievements.  I am referring to examples such as personal fitness and post-secondary academic goals.  (Factoid:  Most people are not physically fit.  Another factoid:  Most people do not achieve a graduate university level of education.)

And now to ME ME ME METAMOPHOSIS ME. To date I have morphed many times in my life.  Close to 70 years of age, my watershed moments are multiple.  (HELLO FRANZ KAFKA!)

My academic wings empirically expanded began flapping immediately following the defence of my Master’s thesis

O’er the waves I was soaring high and in the wind after receiving my swimming instructor/life guard/scuba certification water-world wings.

I was but a bug on my very first buskation thrumming my guitar on the streets of Victoria, British Columbia.  And then after many years of a self-imposed busker internship, I finally transformed into a winged moth who literally flew into Marrakech, and drew over a hundred faces of the merchants on the streets.

I grew; I flew.  I GREW; I FLEW.  I GREW; I FLEW.  

AND YOU CAN TOO.    

ANYONE CAN GROW WINGS AND FLY.

I do not mean to present that intrinsic motivation is the only way to butterfly or moth maker.  Because it's not.  (There is always debate about intrinsic vs extrinsic motivation.  Some argue they are different motivations; while others argue that all motivation is essentially intrinsic.  Whatever the case, this is not a blog about that.)  

One can grow or one can stay same ol’ same ol.’ Granted, it’s always easier to stay in the same ol’ haunts and visit the same ol’ ghosts.  A girl I know took her babes in arms and left her drunken husband.  She left their family house in Calgary, Alberta and moved to Regina.  With no income she had to rely on welfare.  She eventually entered the Adult admission program at the University of Regina, got her undergraduate degree, then entered the College of Law at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.  After passing her bar exams she joined a law firm in Toronto, Ontario and the rest is history.  There are lots of stories like this, stories about people falling to rock bottom and with whatever prompts, manage to keep crawling until they grow wings and fly away.

I opened this post with a biblical reference and it seems fitting, too, that I close with one.  The belief in  Christian theology is that the (Felix Culpa) Fall of humans (translated as "blessed" or "fortunate" fall) was necessary for our redemption -- Jesus Christ had to be crucified on the cross to save our souls from Hell.  "Then shall the fall further the flight in me" (from George Herbert's EASTER WINGS).

True confessions:  I am an existentialist.  I am not a person of faith.  But both these biblical references are included only to make my point about the suffering (fall) and the solace (rise) of the human condition.  Suffering makes us stronger.     

TO MORPH OR TO STAGNATE ...

THE CHOICE IS ALWAYS Y/OURS.

Meanwhile back at the Rackow terrarium …

Two days ago I received a picture of Leaf, a beautiful Achemon Sphinx moth with a four-inch wingspan, looking nothing like that wiener wriggler he once was.

And just a moment ago I received this text from Rebecca:

“LEAF ERICKSON HAS FLOWN AWAY!”

YIKES. IT'S THE MURPH!

 

 

When toddler Michael was just two years old he could swim.  When he was eight he hit a game-winning home run and thanked his team mates for being on base.  When in junior high he rescued a disabled student from a pack of bullies. When a high school senior he defended a back-alley picker being harassed by his teenager peers.  When Lieutenant Michael Murphy was just 29 years old he was killed in action in Afghanistan.

Early morning on June 28^th, 2005, a team of four Navy SEALS, which included Michael, was dropped at an altitude of 10,000 feet into the Hindu Kush Mountains for a mission concerned with guerrilla leader Ahmad Shah.  When they were stumbled upon by a group of goat herders, the mission went sideways.  Within a few hours the team was taking fire on three sides by a force of more than 50 anti-coalition militia members.  Under such adverse conditions, and with all four SEALS seriously wounded and pinned against the cliffs, Michael’s last action on earth was to (unhesitatingly) move into an open area and manage the necessary distress call for backup. Michael and two other SEALS were killed that day.  (The story of this mission is depicted in the non-fiction book and made into the movie, LONE SURVIVOR.)

Previous to his death in Afghanistan, June 28^th, 2005, Michael had already been famous -- for his fitness regimen.  While wearing a weighted 20-pound vest, Michael would run one mile, followed by 100 pull-ups and 200 push-ups and 300 squats, then, sequentially, run another mile.  In elite training circles, Michael’s routine became known as “THE MURPH.”

Immediately after reading about Michael and his mission (and The Murph) in Men’s Health, issue May 2021, I called a nearby fitness supplier who happened to have just two weighted vests left in stock, MDBuddy brand, a 10 kg and a 20 kg.  I bought them both. 

I, who am six feet and 165 pounds, donned the 10 kg (22 pounds); while Baron, my favourite busk mate, who is six feet three inches and 240 pounds of solid muscle, donned the 20 kg (44 pounds).  Together, we walked the five kilometre path around Wascana Lake. 

Hard. Walk. Hard. Hard. Walk. (Baron took the picture of me wearing my MDBuddy is posted atop this blog head.)  At the end of this 50-minute walk, my shoulders were sore, my thorax was aching, my legs were like jelly.

That was on Friday.  The next day I donned my MDBuddy and took a 20-minute walk.

This time … Not. So. Bad.  Later that same Saturday, Baron and I donned our vests again and took another walk around Wascana Lake.  Not surprisingly, the weight was becoming tolerable.

And then on Sunday I donned my MDBuddy yet again and took a solo walk around the lake.  This time -- easier.

I’m thinking that within a couple weeks I’ll be able to run the five kilometres around Wascana Lake while wearing my MDBuddy.  Rather than do the original Murph of a one mile run, 100 pull-ups, 200 push-ups, 300 hundred squats, and run another mile, mine shall be a three mile run (five kilometres), followed by 110 push-ups, and that’s it.  On any given sunny day, I typically run the lake and do 110 push-ups immediately afterwards.  But to make this a legitimate modified Murph, I need to don my MDBuddy vest.

Writing this blog post, I must mention that I wore my MDBuddy on my 10-minute walk to work this morning and again on my recreational noon walk.  So now that is thrice on the weekend and twice so far for the week.  And my reason for such an exercise dedication?  Such an investment in cash and in energy and time is all preparation for my truly becoming the planetary that I have longed to be, as expressed for over a decade in this very blog.  Seriously, if I am to hike about the planet slinging my guitar and/or art pack, I cannot be huffing and puffing and looking flabby (huffing and puffing reflecting my cardio, flabby reflecting my vanity).

Self-reflecting and introspecting, I know that in every action there is always YIN and YANG, and this would include, too, the donning of my MDBuddy.  Admittedly, I’m a bit chary wearing it in public because my MDBuddy exudes a military posture.  Wearing it suggests to some that I am, in the flesh, a military presence.  This is the YIN.

However, my MDBuddy is in fitting harmony (pun intended) with my peripatetic nature.  I love to walk and think, and think and walk.  Thinking about busking and fitness and philosophy whilst I walk will no doubt override the tortuous thinking about the ache and pain brought about by my new best MDBuddy.  This coping is the YANG.

As other newly formed exercise habits previous, the ab-wheel and Jacob’s Ladder in particular, I know that THE MURPH will charge and enhance my body. 

MY MDBUDDY VEST IS MY VANITY PROJECT. Wearing my MDBuddy I have artificial steel abs.  Hopefully, soon and without wearing my MDBuddy I’ll have real steel abs. 

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week are my neighbours, Len, who lives across the hall, and Arrav, who lives two stories below.

ONE THOUSAND GHOSTS: ONE EXISTENTIALIST

 

KARSTEN

Praying on our planet right now are just over two billion Christians and just under two billion Muslims.  The just over two billion Christians believe in one God, and are worshippers of Jesus, the son of God; while, the just under two billion Muslims believe, too, in that same God as the Christians, but believe Jesus to be the messenger of God, rather than the son of God.

To both Christians and Muslims, God is omniscient, knowing all that is past and present and future.  Because God knows what is going to happen, then it follows that it must happen.  In a line, Christians and Muslims are fatalists.  They believe that everything is determined in advance and so, the very devout followers, know they are really unable to do anything about it. 

Neither a follower of Christianity nor Islam, I am so very able to determine my own destiny.  I can do this because I am an existentialist, a follower of Existentialism.

Unlike Christianity and Islam, Existentialism is not a religion.  Rather, it is a philosophical movement that suggests that the existence of life and the universe and of everything actually, has no meaning whatsoever, except for the meanings that we create for ourselves.

Christians believe in the bible; Muslims believe in the Quran; Existentialists believe in whatever literature they want.

Christians and Muslims are servants of God; Existentialists are servants of themselves.

Being an existentialist means I have no God, and therefore, no one entity always knowing where I’ve been or what I am going to do.

Being an Existentialist, I’ve decided to assign BUSKING as meaning for my life. Strumming on the corner with my 12^th string and harp, or with my didgeridoo and clave is my meaningful go-to, my default, when it comes to busking.

But the BUSKING that I’ve really come to enjoy most is my drawing the portraits of passer-by strangers who are willing to fork over ten or more dollars for their doppelganger selves.  (I’ve decided as of late to label these doppelgangers as graphite ghosts.)  Drawing on the street seems my true calling – my opportunity to meet and draw anyone from anywhere, my meaning for life.

Zen and the art of drawing doppelganger graphite ghosts!  It is simple.  It is mindful.  It is calm.

It wasn’t always simple.  Drawing someone’s likeness at lightning speed is a learned skill.  In my memory I have always been able to draw people.  But drawing people on the street for dollars has literally taken me the life of a thousand ghosts to practice.  And the next customer I draw is yet another ghost for practice.

It wasn’t always mindful.  Before, I was always a bit nervous.  Nowadays I still have a slight angst when drawing a new person, and that angst lingers until I can see that the likeness is there.  A thousand ghosts have taught me two important lessons about my craft: People do not know what they look like is lesson number one.  And my pencil never lies (at least not to me) is lesson number two.  I draw exactly who I see, and I see only ghosts, and they don’t even know they’re ghosts. 

It wasn’t always calm.  Whenever I am drawing someone in a public place, lots of people gather tend to gather around and behind me, watching me draw the face of the person posing in front of me.  This used to be quite disconcerting, but now it is comforting.  Drawing draws a crowd (pun intended) and the more bodies it draws means the more bodies I draw and that means more dollars in my pocket.  I love it when people jostle to get next in the queue.  CHA-CHING!

But surely the meaning in life for me is more than cha-ching.  

My meaning of life is not about the money.  My meaning for life is all about the adventure of drawing a new face in a new space.  And I’m always hoping to travel to a new space, a city or country I’ve never been before.

Factoid: Almost as much as I love busking I love hiking.  Hiking, too, is about adventure.  A hiking adventure for me means climbing a mountain, swimming a sea, or wandering a forest. To enjoy these adventures, in particular, are one needs to be mentally fit, physically fit, and fiscally fit.

Mental fitness has always been my theme.  I am always alert.  Not-so-strangely, I have to be mentally alert when I draw.  If I were not so, nobody would recognize their graphic ghosts never mind their doppelganger selves.

Physical fitness has been a priority of mine since my university days.  In my salad days of undergraduate studies, I swam a mile every morning in the university pool.  In my thirtysomething years I ran a minimum of five miles a day. And now in my 60’s I have become a fair weather runner, all-season hiker, and year long busking and Muay Thai guy. 

Fiscal fitness has always been a concern.  Did I mention that I have children? 

Anyone having the responsibility of children to nourish, whether it be to nourish their hunger or their thinking or their recreation, knows the money pot can never be empty.  For the most part, middle-class parents seem more than willing to sacrifice their personal time and their personal fun and personal finances to suffer accordingly for the benefits of their kids.     

I have (finally) arrived at a point in my life where I can, without too much guilt, focus my energy and time and budget on the sensations of new sights, new sounds, new tastes, new aromas, and all touches metaphor Midas.  Searching for meaning and joy in the worlds of busking and hiking shall now be my enterprise.  Being in the Autumn of my life, I’ve no years left to squander.

My dream of becoming a planetary busker shall become my reality.