We have released the Monarchs! Parents sending their children off to college could not be more proud – or nervous – than we are in sending these butterflies out into the world.

In truth, though I say “we”, my partner did all the work, because I was traveling. I was an absent parent – though I watched every step, anxiously, on screen.  As a result, I am emotionally invested in a creature I have never touched, and whose fate I will not know.

The process of raising a Monarch butterfly begins with milkweed, the only plant that Monarch caterpillars will eat. For years I tried to grow milkweed in my garden, but every winter the plants succumbed to my sodden clay soil. So, as we were raising these Monarchs for an education program at our local Wildlife Refuge, we collected caterpillars from stands of milkweed there.  The caterpillars – allover striped in black, white and yellow, like a snazzy set of pajamas – came home and were installed in a mesh tent with lots of milkweed.

Munch, munch, munch. We hadn’t realized how much milkweed the caterpillars would eat. Nor had we realized how difficult it would be to find pesticide-free milkweed where we live, where the crop fields are sprayed multiple times each year and the local Council mows the roadside verges.

Eventually one of the caterpillars made its way to the top of the mesh tent, spun silk fibers to attach its tail to the top, and slowly formed itself into the shape of a J-hook. I’d always assumed that the next stage, the chrysalis, resulted from the caterpillar spinning silk around itself to form a protective cocoon. Instead, the chrysalis slowly emerged as the caterpillar turned itself inside out, bottom to top, head to tail.

Now began the watching and waiting. I knew, from reading, that inside the chrysalis the caterpillar breaks down (“completely dissolves” said one article) and transforms into a butterfly. But what exactly does this mean? Physically, I suppose, body parts break down into molecules, and those molecules rearrange themselves into a different configuration, the way a child plays with a Meccano set.

But not everything breaks down, because the adult butterfly retains in its body the essence of the milkweed on which the caterpillar fed; this milkweed makes the Monarch butterfly somewhere between unpalatable and poisonous to predators. A neat trick of evolution, from the perspective of the adult Monarch, but a puzzle to me, picturing the “black goo” that the caterpillar supposedly turns into.

What I’d really like to know is what happens to the caterpillar’s soul, or spirit, or whatever we want to call its life force. Is there a caterpillar spirit, that departs from the chrysalis allowing a new butterfly spirit to enter? Or does the spirit stay constant as the body is transformed?

After about a week, the chrysalis began to change color, from leaf green (for camouflage) to brown, an outer sign of the changes happening within. Finally, on Day 10, the chrysalis began to change color again, from brown to clear, and now we could see inside a hint of orange wings with black wing bars.

Slowly, the chrysalis began to split, revealing the adult Monarch, its wings still crumpled and its body swollen with fluid.  The emergence from the chrysalis is perhaps the most dangerous part of the process: if the wings are damaged at this stage the butterfly will not fly as it needs to. Flight is especially critical for Monarchs hatched at this time of year, because this is the generation that will fly south for thousands of miles to overwinter in Mexico.

Over the next few hours the butterfly pumped fluid from its body out into the wings, the wings extended and filled out, the body slimmed down. We had a fully-formed Monarch butterfly! The second caterpillar performed the same miracle a day later.

Now we had a quandary. I’m sure that when we started this adventure, we imagined releasing the butterflies on a sunny day in a flower-filled meadow.  On the day that the first butterfly hatched, though, Tropical Storm Ophelia began a slow march up the East Coast, bringing high winds and rain. The butterfly program at the Refuge was cancelled.

We fretted, not wanting to release the butterflies into the storm, so we decided to provide them with us for a day or two and provide them with food. First, fresh tickseed flowers: those were ignored. Next, sugar water on a sponge; also ignored. Next, overripe watermelon; ignored again. Instead of feeding, the butterflies spent all of their time fluttering against the roof of their tent.

Migratory birds kept in captivity show a phenomenon called Zugenruhe, or migratory restlessness, in which they try to set out on their migratory journeys even though they are in cages. Were our Monarchs experiencing the same phenomenon? It became clear that we needed to release the butterflies, or have them starve.

When released, each one spiraled higher and higher into the sky. Did the adult butterflies retain some vestigial memory of the Wildlife Refuge where they first lived as caterpillars? Was the spiraling a search for familiar landmarks? Or was it the exhilaration of wings feeling air for the first time?

Now they’re gone, hopefully to join the great river of Monarchs flowing south towards Mexico. I’ve read that when the butterflies arrive in Mexico in early November, on the Day of the Dead, they are celebrated for bringing with them the souls of departed family and friends. It seems a fitting celebration for a creature whose metamorphosis joins life, death and rebirth.