07/01/2026
Sometimes I wonder if I'm too invested in everything happening at Murphbell.
Every creature.
Every story.
Every bloom.
Weeks ago, I discovered a handful of swallowtail caterpillars on the parsley growing beside the greenhouse. One of them slowly became Chunky Cat—a name affectionately earned after growing from one of eight tiny caterpillars into a rather impressive little parsley enthusiast.
Over the weeks, I watched Chunky Cat grow, molt, and munch its way through the greenhouse pot. Somewhere along the way, a caterpillar stopped being just a caterpillar and became a story worth following.
I checked on it every day.
I celebrated each new stage.
I worried when others disappeared.
And when Chunky Cat finally wandered away from the parsley and chose a low rung on a hog panel as its pupation site, I was thrilled.
I stayed up late watching.
I checked before work, after work, and between chores.
I was convinced I was about to witness something I had never seen before—a swallowtail forming its chrysalis.
But nature had other plans.
Within the span of thirty minutes, Chunky Cat's story ended.
And I was reminded that nature can be breathtakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly cruel all at once.
Because somewhere along the way, a caterpillar becomes more than just a caterpillar.
A bird becomes more than just another visitor in the yard.
The rabbits become familiar faces.
The flowers become tomorrow's infused water.
And a backyard becomes a place full of stories worth following.
The difficult part about paying attention is that you notice the losses, too.
You notice the caterpillar that never becomes a butterfly.
The bloom that fades.
The season that changes.
The tiny lives that don't get the ending you hoped for.
Tomorrow's infused water is steeping in the refrigerator tonight—strawberries, blueberries, lemon balm, Judith's fuchsia leaves, borage flowers, and calendula petals.
I almost called it Metamorphosis Blend.
But metamorphosis never happened.
So perhaps it should simply be called Almost Wings.
And maybe, just maybe, that's the price of caring deeply about the little things.
It's possible that that is also what Murphbell is all about.
Not perfect endings.
Not always getting to witness the butterfly emerge.
But simply paying attention.
Bearing witness.
Celebrating the hatchlings, the blossoms, the rabbits at the water dishes, the caterpillars on the parsley, and yes, mourning the ones that don't make it.
Because for a brief moment, they mattered.
They were seen.
They were rooted for.
And they became part of the story.
Perhaps that's enough.
🩷Rest easy, Chunky Cat. You were almost wings🩷
