04 May Carrot the Caterpillar
When Ella was five, she found a teeny-tiny caterpillar in our backyard. It was orange with a green head. She loved it and declared it was her very best friend forever. She named the caterpillar Carrot.
She kept Carrot in small jar with a cotton ball she thought he might like to rest his head on. That night, she held the jar close to her body as she slept. The next morning, little Carrot was moving more slowly in the jar.
She wondered if Carrot might need a good breakfast, perhaps a pancake. As she stuffed some pancake crumbs into the jar, we talked about Carrot’s options. I explained that we didn’t know how to best care for the caterpillar. If we kept him inside the little jar, Carrot would die. The other option was to put Carrot back outside.
I could see Ella’s mind working through the options, torn between the idea of losing her friend and also wanting the little caterpillar to live. Finally, after a lengthy pause, she asked, “So if Carrot goes outside, then can we protect him from birds who might try to eat him and keep him safe forever?”
“Well, no,” I answered truthfully.
Ella’s lip quivered at these equally horrible options as she clutched the jar with Carrot inside. In her eyes, I saw her realizing, perhaps for the first time, the struggle of holding on and letting go. The happiness of Carrot’s existence mixed with the inevitable way that loss is folded into the wholeness of life. The longing for permanence in a world of change.
“I hate this,” she finally said with tears in her eyes.
“Me too,” I said, taking her into my arms.