Monarch Butterfly: A Beautiful Journey

Monarch browsing goldenrod in a high meadow, September 2025.

It was a season of monarchs in our garden. We first discovered the caterpillars one sultry evening in late July on a meander across twilight lawn, in the moody shelter of silhouette trees. The work of our day was done—but here were monarch caterpillars—distinctive black-and-white-and-chartreuse stripes—plump and brimming with appetite, crawling and curling across leaf and stem, munching milkweed in the dusky perennial bed. With closer observation, we located scatterings of pearlescent pinpoint eggs, and it became apparent that someone had been busy with butterfly business while we were occupied with more mundane garden tasks. In weeks to come, the chrysalises remained elusive—camouflaged and quiescent—hidden from our view. We were not privy to the process of transformation, but when we encountered fresh, unfettered wings and flutter amidst late summer blooms, we told ourselves it was one of our monarchs embarking on a beautiful journey.

Monarch caterpillars in the twilight garden, August 2025.

Across the languid, long-stretching calendar of August, monarchs filled the garden. Taking shelter from from the heat of given days, I sat beneath a patio umbrella, pen in hand and notebook on lap, nominally intending to make a list of errands and notes of things-to-do—but instead passed afternoons in the company of joyful monarchs as they sampled marmalade-hued lantana blooms, brushed by strawberry blond marigolds, perched on purple coneflowers, and browsed pink phlox swaying enticingly with gentle breeze. Every so often, a monarch would take brief leave of nectar gathering and circle my spot on the patio, pirouetting through umbrella shade as if to say, Come share the sunshine. You're on a journey but not moving. Join us. Join us!

Monarch perched on purple coneflower in the garden, August 2025.

August yielded to September, and suddenly the monarchs vanished from our garden. Was it change in the contour of light? A diminishment of nectar? A whisper-rumor of frost? It seemed that we turned to take a breath of crisp morning air—and they were gone. At the same time, we began encountering monarchs more frequently on favorite hiking trails—in windswept meadows above the Susquehanna River, amidst maritime scrub behind the dunes at Cape May Point, on late-blooming fringes of Lancaster County farm fields—where they paused to feed on goldenrod, ironweed, Joe Pye weed, and late boneset before continuing southward, always southward. These monarchs appeared seasoned and purposeful, with darker, more aerodynamic wings than our garden monarchs—well-suited for long distance flight. By late September, we were reading reports that the migratory generation was passing through Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas. As our garden accepted the wistful mantle of autumn, we traced the monarchs' journey in our imaginations.

Migrating monarch on groundsel, Cape May, New Jersey, September 2023.

Now in late October, autumn light falls across the garden. Vivid orange, black-veined wings are but memory, replaced by mellowed leaves clinging to shadowed branches. With a rush of northwesterly wind, one by one or all at once, the leaves release and spiral to ground, drift across suddenly melancholy beds, and mingle with drying and withering plants before settling for the long, silver-tinged rest. And thousands of miles away, monarchs are arriving at their wintering grounds in the cloud forests of central Mexico, roosting in oyamel firs—sacred evergreen trees of the Sierra Madre. This is a bittersweet season and so, with a mixture of gratitude and aspiration, we plant more milkweed and add varieties of nectar-rich natives to the perennial beds for next year. When the garden has had enough winter, it will bloom again—and monarchs will return, bearing wisdom of generations on wander-dusted wings. As one journey ends, another begins. Their story is heartbreakingly beautiful in design and rendering. —B. 

Monarch on wild hydrangea along the trail, June 2023.

Monarch Butterflies

They are not promised 

refuge from squall and tempest, 

nor are they offered 

guarantee of safe passage 

across troubled miles—

or respite from vagaries 

of time and passing season. 

Yet they are given 

an understanding 

of light and deepened shadow,

and something within,

like inherent faith, 

and something more than knowing,

gliding with the wind—

And something without,

browsing joyful goldenrod 

in lofty meadow.

To travel as a monarch—

trusting in angle of light 

for navigation, 

using high clouds as compass—

holding that there is purpose

and something more than going. 

How fragile the wings

and how courageous the wings. 

How beautiful the journey—

how storied the sky. 

—B.

Common milkweed.

Migrating monarch, Cape May, New Jersey, 2023.

The monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) is an icon of the butterfly world. It is one of the most stunning and recognizable butterflies, with bright orange wings featuring black veins and white dots. The monarch has a special relationship with milkweed, the only plant on which it will lay eggs and feed its young. In the northeastern United States and southeast Canada, the monarch usually spends its spring and summer near milkweed patches. It is one of the few butterflies that does not hibernate through winter as a caterpillar. To survive the cold-weather days, it must migrate south. Consequently, the lifespan of a single monarch is dependent on the time of its emergence. If it emerges during the spring or early summer breeding season, it will typically live only a few weeks. 

Monarch visiting patio garden blooms, September 2023.

But if it emerges in late summer—as part of the final generation of the breeding season—it has the incredible ability to slow its development so that it will live up to nine months. In fall, these select monarchs will instinctively gather and migrate thousands of miles as far south as central Mexico, making roosting stops along the way. The butterflies make their journey along with the darker days of fall, clustering together for warmth, navigating their way south to winter in the warm sun. Come spring, these same monarchs will be on a tight schedule, mating, making the long journey back north, finding a milkweed patch, and letting the next generation emerge and carry on. —D.

Monarch on Goldenrod amidst ruins at Camp Michaux, August 2022.

Feeling inspired by the unique abilities of the monarch butterfly? Try “Butterfly Position” (Baddha Konasana), a seated yoga pose that opens hips, improves flexibility, and reduces tension. Suitable for most bodies and all levels of experience, it is a good pose for reminding you of your distinctiveness—you will not look the same in this pose as anyone else, and no one else will look quite like you. If you do the posture daily, you will notice that your pose changes daily too. Observe what is right for your body in each moment as you practice the pose. 

Monarch on lantana in the garden, September 2023.

Come to a seat on the floor with both legs stretched out in front of you, hands on the floor. Breathe deeply several times. On an exhale, bend your knees, and gently bring the soles of your feet together on the floor in front of you. If this is uncomfortable, you may want to try elevating your hips by sitting on a cushion or folded blanket. Depending on how it feels, slide your feet closer or further from your body. If your knees resist dropping down to the floor, there is no need to force them—just notice where they fall and keep breathing deeply. Inhale and sit up tall. With practice, you might stay in this pose for up to 5 minutes.  When you are ready, use an exhale to lean back slightly, stretch your legs out in front of you again, and shake them a little to release any tension. —D.

    from The Chrysalis, second stanza

    A power of Butterfly must be 

    The Aptitude to fly, 

    Meadows of Majesty concedes 

    And easy Sweeps of Sky.... 

    —Emily Dickinson,

   1830-1886, American poet