On Catapulting Lady Bugs
On Catapulting Lady Bugs
By Julie Leonard
The first bridge is right at the trail head. We hang over the railing, listening to the trickle of water and naming the
first five wildflowers of the day. It’s one of the first really hot days of the summer, though it’s already mid-July. A
long, cool, rainy spring has brought out an unusual abundance of life in Colorado. Before we’ve gone ten steps
up the trail, we’ve started to notice the dots of red moving, moving, on every twig and blade of grass. We’ve
seen ladybugs gather in clumps on mountaintops in the fall, but this is something quite different.
The flowering season seems to have been condensed, too, with early flowers like lupine still in bloom
alongside gaillardia and even asters, the quintessential fall flower, already showing purple. We pass a large fir
where we discovered a hummingbird nest one year. No hummingbird this time, but there are loud cries coming
from somewhere in the aspen by the creek. We watch till we spot a woodpecker shooting straight toward a hole
in a trunk as the clamor gets even louder.
As we wind up the valley, new varieties of flowers appear and others fade out, but still the ladybugs accompany
us. We stop to breathe and to watch the first cloud we’ve spotted all day. As it drifts from west to east, it gets
wispier and finally vanishes in the blue. Somehow there’s more room here to get a glimpse of the really big
things: my better self, aliveness, all creation.
This is the same park where I worked as a naturalist for three summers. I was on the rebound from a job in a
darkroom, burning plates for printing presses. The pressroom worked 10-hour days, so in winter we never saw
the sun during the week. I know intellectually that God is also present in the darkroom, along with airport waiting
areas and hotel conference rooms, but there’s something about those places that creates a kind of spiritual
static in me, so that I can’t tune God in.
That’s not a problem as we reach the high meadow and find purple pools of wild iris still in bloom. Spotting a
likely aspen grove, we make our way around the edge of the marshy valley floor. As park naturalist part of my job
was educating visitors not to pick flowers or cart away rocks, to stay on the trails to reduce erosion. I sometimes
wonder, though, if that hands-off attitude, viewing the “exhibits” from the center of the path, doesn’t actually
contribute to a sense of separation between people and the rest of nature. We do try to avoid sitting on flowers
as we sink down in the shade.
Within minutes there are ladybugs in our hair, on our jeans, crawling across the backs of our hands. My
daughter bends a branch back toward her, to get a better look at the ladybug that’s climbing it. As she lets go,
the ladybug is launched into the air. Soon we’re all bending twigs and blades of grass, catapulting ladybugs,
which spread their red wing cases, shining in the sun, and rise to join the cloud hovering over the meadow. Joy
bubbles up into laughter - perfect day - state of grace.
By Julie Leonard
The first bridge is right at the trail head. We hang over the railing, listening to the trickle of water and naming the
first five wildflowers of the day. It’s one of the first really hot days of the summer, though it’s already mid-July. A
long, cool, rainy spring has brought out an unusual abundance of life in Colorado. Before we’ve gone ten steps
up the trail, we’ve started to notice the dots of red moving, moving, on every twig and blade of grass. We’ve
seen ladybugs gather in clumps on mountaintops in the fall, but this is something quite different.
The flowering season seems to have been condensed, too, with early flowers like lupine still in bloom
alongside gaillardia and even asters, the quintessential fall flower, already showing purple. We pass a large fir
where we discovered a hummingbird nest one year. No hummingbird this time, but there are loud cries coming
from somewhere in the aspen by the creek. We watch till we spot a woodpecker shooting straight toward a hole
in a trunk as the clamor gets even louder.
As we wind up the valley, new varieties of flowers appear and others fade out, but still the ladybugs accompany
us. We stop to breathe and to watch the first cloud we’ve spotted all day. As it drifts from west to east, it gets
wispier and finally vanishes in the blue. Somehow there’s more room here to get a glimpse of the really big
things: my better self, aliveness, all creation.
This is the same park where I worked as a naturalist for three summers. I was on the rebound from a job in a
darkroom, burning plates for printing presses. The pressroom worked 10-hour days, so in winter we never saw
the sun during the week. I know intellectually that God is also present in the darkroom, along with airport waiting
areas and hotel conference rooms, but there’s something about those places that creates a kind of spiritual
static in me, so that I can’t tune God in.
That’s not a problem as we reach the high meadow and find purple pools of wild iris still in bloom. Spotting a
likely aspen grove, we make our way around the edge of the marshy valley floor. As park naturalist part of my job
was educating visitors not to pick flowers or cart away rocks, to stay on the trails to reduce erosion. I sometimes
wonder, though, if that hands-off attitude, viewing the “exhibits” from the center of the path, doesn’t actually
contribute to a sense of separation between people and the rest of nature. We do try to avoid sitting on flowers
as we sink down in the shade.
Within minutes there are ladybugs in our hair, on our jeans, crawling across the backs of our hands. My
daughter bends a branch back toward her, to get a better look at the ladybug that’s climbing it. As she lets go,
the ladybug is launched into the air. Soon we’re all bending twigs and blades of grass, catapulting ladybugs,
which spread their red wing cases, shining in the sun, and rise to join the cloud hovering over the meadow. Joy
bubbles up into laughter - perfect day - state of grace.
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