A Ladybug's Refuge

Winter: Week 2 2025 - Notes on Survival, Where Mountain Winds Meet Tiny Wings

In Her Nature is a year long exploration into the healing power of the natural world. Season by season, setting out to awaken the spirit, and rekindle joy. The weekly journal of a neighborhood, its plants and birds and creatures — and how they are helping repair a heart and rebirth a soul.

There's a ladybug in my house. I first saw her in late November, ten plus weeks ago now. Some days she's hanging out on the dining table, other times on the staircase balcony, and once, I rescued her just in time from drowning in the dog's water bowl. Every few days, I see her again in a new place — a small crimson miracle against winter's monochrome canvas. It's unexpected and brings delight.

What is it about ladybugs that elicits a mile-wide grin? She brings out the five-year-old in me as she treks her way across my palm, her tiny feet tickling my skin like whispered secrets. No doubt she found her way inside while the dog was romping in the garden, with the back door left ajar. She is one of nature's survivors and, by all accounts, intends to make it until at least the spring.

As I write this, though, I panic and realize I have no idea how long ladybugs actually live. I'm horrified she might never again get to feel the warmth of the sun on her back or taste the sweetness of aphids. My chest is tight; I'm responsible for her now. Her fragile existence suddenly mirrors my own vulnerability—both of us sheltering from different storms.

Ladybug

Crawling around crevices,

You creep.

A toddling bug, what are you doing here

in this space of glass and plasterboard?

Alone, no other bug to befriend,

Are you looking for connection or solitude?

– Margaret Aitken

What a marvel that I can feel such love and compassion for the tiniest of creatures, where I could move heaven and earth to save her... and yet abandon myself at the first turn? I take a deep breath. The human condition is complex — we more easily become saviors than our own salvation.

Oh, but delight! The internet tells me the adult stage of a ladybug's life can last up to one year. The entire life cycle from egg to adult can take up to two years. I feel a burst of joy rippling through me like spring's first thaw. Ok, so I am now completely invested in my little red and black spotted friend and have promptly started a naming project!

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Today is the perfect day for a ladybug to be snug indoors. The winds are raging this early morning, nature's percussion against the silence of snowfall. I'm lying in bed and listening to them howl — a primal lullaby from the wild beyond my windows. We live to the east of Boulder in a house that stands exposed on one side to a vast wild protected open space. The beauty of the unfettered views of the Front Range and Rocky Mountains sealed that we would make this our forever home.

Naively, at the time, we knew nothing about the wind that comes down from the mountains, often out of nowhere, picking up speed as it rushes down the foothills, then barreling its way across the plains to hit exactly our house — as if we were the percussion target in nature's symphony. This morning was no exception.

Each season brings a new flavor. In the spring, the winds bring warmer air; in summer, the afternoon 'sheer' makes thunderstorms and sometimes golf ball-sized hail. Today they are bringing snow. Crystalline messengers swirling like forgotten dreams.

In the darkness, I'm thinking about Bridget, the now-named ladybug, and I'm thinking about me. How easy it is for me to be the caretaker and watch and worry for the comfort of others rather than my own. I've spent a ridiculous number of cycles dreaming of a life with more creatures to watch over. Adding ducks, geese, goats, and sheep to our two horses, a dog, two beehives, and Bridget, of course. Is choosing to care for others an excuse? A justification for not choosing to help myself? I don't like the answer my wise self gives. Yes, in the end, it's easier than forging a new life from the one I lived before and allowing help in.

People have tried to help, but often I wasn't in a brave enough place to return a call or a text. How does one respond to "how are you?" when you don't even know what day it is? When your soul feels like winter earth — frozen, dormant, waiting?

Now they don't reach out as much, a consequence of my own making. I'm better than I was, and dare I say even social most days. Though it's a constant battle to live in the human world. I prefer the non-talking, non-judging, no-ego version that allows me to breathe in birdsong and walk silent footprints in fresh snow — each step a meditation, a reclamation of self.

I'm highly aware that being with people will help me reintegrate and navigate the way forward. I have so much more to contribute, seeds of purpose waiting beneath the frost. I know I will need their help. It's a fine balance to walk.

But for now, I tell myself I am being healed, and I'm content to let the roaring wind swaddle my restless heart and soothe me like an infant. In this moment, I am both protector and protected — Bridget's guardian and nature's child. I hope I see Bridget today, my tiny red companion on this winter's journey.