The Fox, the Wasp & the Butterfly

Dear friend,

I was out walking with Zara on the marshes this morning. She was partway through her morning constitutional when I noticed a fox watching us from the long, golden, sun-baked grass. It’s unusual to see a fox out in daylight—more unusual still for it to walk directly toward a dog, which it was doing.

I called Zara, who was still otherwise engaged, and got just enough of her attention to run to her and get her on the lead. The fox was clearly injured or sick—its back legs had lost coordination and strength. Something similar happened to Santina in the last year or so of her life.

It felt like the fox was coming to me for help.

Francesca, who lives on my street, appeared with her whippet, and another guy I nod to was there too with his dog. He pointed out that the marsh rangers were nearby, and Francesca said she could see them. They were a two-minute walk away, so I took Zara over and interrupted the rangers while they were discussing the day’s project.

One of them came back with me. We found the fox, and I took Zara away out of temptation’s reach. Without help, the fox wouldn’t have made it through the day. Its strange behaviour—and Zara’s preoccupation—saved it. Any number of dogs on the marshes could have finished it off.

We continued past the café by the canal and along the path that leads through the small coppice, into another strange encounter. At the foot of a wooden bench, a wasp was attacking the wing of a cabbage butterfly.

The wasp was straddling the edge of the butterfly’s right wing, as if it were a leaf it was cutting into. We have leaf-cutting wasps in our area. I felt the butterfly’s cries and bent down, picking up a tiny twig to brush the wasp away. The butterfly hopped onto the back of my hand with the wasp still attached. As I managed to persuade the wasp to buzz off, the butterfly flew up and landed on the top of my arm, just below the shoulder. Then it launched itself into the sky, where it met its mate—and the two of them flew up into the brilliance of the sun.

The wasp chased for a moment, then turned back.

A few moments later, I saw it buzzing around the hundreds of fallen, ripe summer fruits on the ground—a second’s flight from where the attack had taken place.

In a coppice of trees, dense with leaves and undergrowth, moments from more fermenting fruit and natural sugars than even a hundred thousand wasps could use.

Trying to eat a butterfly’s wing?

I know at least one reader who struggles with Monday mornings. Maybe many do—groaning inwardly as the week crowds in. I woke feeling oddly unsettled today too.

In fact, I was praying and asking Spirit for help as we walked to the marshes. The message came through clearly—the wasp, the butterfly, the fox.

I didn’t find out what happened to the fox. We circled back round, but the rangers weren’t to be seen, and I wanted to keep Zara away.

We came home, and some repressed sadness surfaced.

Sometimes my mind does this thing—realising how much I love Zara, then remembering my love for Santina, and missing her terribly. Even though I’m not alone. Even though I have this magical creature with me.

These doubts, desires, fears, and regrets—they’re like the wasp clinging to the butterfly’s wing. Trying to extract something from what cannot feed it. While all around, the bounty remains.

Slowly, the brittle feeling melts, and peace returns.

It’s ebb and flow.

Nothing to get too worked up about.

I’ll ask the rangers about the fox next time I see them.

I hope they were able to help.

Till tomorrow,
Love,
Mikey