Percy the Mantis and Death Defied

a devotional for autumn

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash

perhaps
reclaiming Eden
is as easy as noticing
the tiny things,
the fragile things;

perhaps
the Garden we're looking for
is right beneath our feet
and brushing past our faces;

perhaps
the place we're homesick for
is precisely
where we stand. 

During this time of year, I find myself meditating more and more on death. And somehow, by contrast, that makes me even more aware of the miracle of life. 

As an example, let’s talk about Percy. 

Percy is a wild praying mantis that liked to linger outside of my husband’s woodshop over the last few weeks. Several days ago, Percy fell from her (yes, her) perch, and my husband grew increasingly concerned that she had injured herself (he’s also the one that christened her). He picked her up and set her on our rock wall where she lay on her back for a day or so, barely moving. 

Now, having done a bit of research, I know that Percy is at the very end of her natural lifespan. She is an adult mantis, no more moulting to be done, and will soon pass away from old age. But I have to tell you that seeing her lying there in such a sad state, well…it made both me and my husband feel something akin to sorrow for this little bug. 

On the morning of Friday the 13th, I went outside with our dog, and Percy was lying in her spot, very still. I gave her a gentle nudge, and sure enough, she was still kicking.

Sigh. Okay, Lord. I get it. 

Operation Mantis Hospice began. A simple terrarium on the office windowsill (just a big glass jar with some soil, leaves, and sticks, really). A drop of honey, fed from my fingertip, which she greedily ate. And mostly just leaving her alone to rest without fear of getting eaten by a passing bird.

I feel it’s important that I say this, here: I didn’t bring Percy inside for entirely altruistic reasons. I know that wildlife die, that dozens of animals and untold numbers of insects pass away on this property throughout the year without me even knowing about it. But it was the knowing that I couldn’t get past. The idea of Percy being out there dying, and me knowing. There was something about that I couldn’t handle. And that says more about my relationship with myself, perhaps, than it does my relationship with nature. It’s humbling, realizing that my compassion was inspired by seeing the decline of one insect with my own eyes.

What else is all around me that I’m missing? What if I were to apply that same compassion to other things, people, experiences in my life? What if I let myself look closer? What then?

By the end of that first day in the terrarium, I was shocked to see Percy climb to her feet, finding herself a little perch on the sticks I had placed in the terrarium. Honey, turns out, is a miracle mantis-rehab food!

As I write this, two days later, she has found herself a comfy spot hanging upside-down from the fabric roof of her terrarium, watching the little isopods I placed in the substrate as they scurry busily from one dead leaf to another. For now, she’s alive and alert, a little office companion. It won’t be that way for very long; I know enough to know that mantises don’t last too long into winter.

But when Percy pins me with those wide alien eyes, it’s a stark reminder to be open-eyed in my life for other sorrows, other wounds, other souls in decline. 

One little mantis defying death for a few days feels like a miracle. I wonder: how many more death-defying miracles could I make, if only I allowed myself to truly see the needs?

Discussion Question

In what unexpected places—or through what unexpected teachers—have you learned compassion for the needs, wounds, and problems of others? Do you feel equipped to meet those needs? If not (and believe me, I don’t), what fears do you have around stepping into that radical, active compassion?   

---

Moved by this piece (or simply feel like supporting my coffee habit) and want to contribute a one-time donation? Click the Tip Jar button below!

For more writings like this, subscribe for free!