God and Nature Fall 2023
On camera: scripture in creation |
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Lady Bug, Lady Bug, Fly Away Home
By Cheryl Grey Bostrom
They were landing in my hair. Crawling along fence post rails and up lamp posts. Floating across the sun-warmed meadow outside my cabin and glinting like dust motes in a sunbeam.
Ladybugs. Everywhere.
They were landing in my hair. Crawling along fence post rails and up lamp posts. Floating across the sun-warmed meadow outside my cabin and glinting like dust motes in a sunbeam.
Ladybugs. Everywhere.
I've always liked the bugs. Beetles, actually. In these photos, they're Asian lady beetles—distinguished by their rusty ovoid bodies, the letter M on the pronotum behind their noggins, and a tendency to bite now and then.
As a child I learned that if I didn't squash the bright gold clusters of ladybug eggs on the undersides of my grandmother's rose leaves, they'd hatch into lumpy, bristled, black and orange alligator-like larvae prowling for aphids. Soon enough, I'd find their pupae and stow those spotted orange beads in a jar until the adult beetles emerged after a week or two.
Since I still I accommodate the little creatures when they wedge themselves into our window casings ahead of winter's blast, when a ladybug landed on my legal pad as I headed through old growth forest to a writing workshop, I greeted her amiably. And right there on my yellow page, she retracted her flight wings into origami folds, as her elytra—her split, polka-dotted shell— lowered over those wings like the doors on a Tesla SUV.
A genius design.
Unfortunately, I was too preoccupied with towering firs, crimson vine maples, and a band of new writer friends to give more than a passing nod to the tiny creature. By the time I wound my way down the woodland path to dinner, the air had cooled and cleared. The ladybugs had vanished.
Or so I thought.
But outside the dining hall, an irregularity in two ancient, moss-covered Douglas firs caught my eye. Their deeply ridged bark looked reddish, as if invaded by some unfamiliar lichen.
Or ladybugs.
Yes. Ladybugs. Thousands of them filled the trunks' furrows as they heaped in upon themselves on a scale far grander than the few dozen that jam into my house's seams.
My nonchalance about the little beetles had evaporated. I was awestruck. “Do they keep each other warm?” I asked Heather, a nature writer who lives and breathes all things wilderness. After the balmy day, we were wearing jackets. The ladybugs were huddling.
“The tree does,” she said. “Certain birds, like chickadees, know that, too. They’ll squeeze into the bark on cold nights.”
Such wonders—with much to teach us. In the intricacy and fragility of those tiny red beetles, I see our own. In the huddling, I see our dependence upon warmth for sustained flight, and how, when the atmosphere chills, we survive best in community that finds welcome and shelter in something much larger than ourselves.
For me, that something is Someone: the Designer of ladybugs, chickadees. Us.
“The tree does,” she said. “Certain birds, like chickadees, know that, too. They’ll squeeze into the bark on cold nights.”
Such wonders—with much to teach us. In the intricacy and fragility of those tiny red beetles, I see our own. In the huddling, I see our dependence upon warmth for sustained flight, and how, when the atmosphere chills, we survive best in community that finds welcome and shelter in something much larger than ourselves.
For me, that something is Someone: the Designer of ladybugs, chickadees. Us.
“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1 (NIV)
Pacific Northwest naturalist and photographer Cheryl Grey Bostrom is the author of four books, including the multiple-award-winning novel SUGAR BIRDS and its forthcoming sequel LEANING ON AIR. A former teacher and columnist, she lives with her veterinarian husband and a small pack of Gordon setters in rural Washington State.
Pacific Northwest naturalist and photographer Cheryl Grey Bostrom is the author of four books, including the multiple-award-winning novel SUGAR BIRDS and its forthcoming sequel LEANING ON AIR. A former teacher and columnist, she lives with her veterinarian husband and a small pack of Gordon setters in rural Washington State.