When I first started this journey, I began trialing the ‘No Mow‘ approach, leaving a portion of our small lawn un-mowed. Just to see what happened. What I witnessed was eye opening, challenging our suburban norms of why we have so many grass lawns and berms. It drew me to another form of action – planting an eco berm pathway which could connect our insect pollinators to fragments of bush, and at the same time maybe connect people who live here.
“If you see torches flashing in the bush this Saturday night, you’ll know it’s just us!” I’d emailed nearby neighbours to let them know a small group of us were going down the Carvel Walkway to discover what nocturnal moth neighbours we might have, attracting them to us with a home-made light trap.
Darkness descended around 8.30pm, our cue to head down to a spot in the bush, just beyond streetlights and glows from home windows. And if anyone was looking from those windows as we walked past they may well have fallen about laughing. Fey had jokingly made us bibs titled moth count supervisor and moth count interns to wear over our rain jackets and over-trousers. And combined with flashing headlights strapped to beanies our rather bizarre looking convoy marched down the road. I really wasn’t sure how this experiment would go.
I’d gingerly put out some feelers on the Whitby Community Facebook and Neighbourly pages seeking thoughts about day to day urban experiences and connections with insect pollinators. Luke was among those who responded. I was thrilled when he invited me to pop round and chat about his gardening style. He had a plan to convert a grass strip alongside the driveway into wildflowers for bees, butterflies and other more-than-human neighbours. Yet on that warm afternoon there was something more I witnessed in the encounter.
New neighbours moved in a few weeks back. No one said anything but a couple of families set up camp in our front yard. I say ‘our yard’ but I’m not convinced it is. A piece of paper suggests we technically own the property, but does anyone really ‘own’ parts of Earth? Who was here before me, us – settlers, early Māori, more than humans? The recent arrivals seem to have a keener sense of ownership and purpose than me. One family is numerous, busy and bossy. They zig zag around me, in an irritated fashion, on their way in and out of the property. The other lot are more discreet, and quieter, occupying the far end of the courtyard.
Some of the neighbours have gone suddenly, without word. I can’t say I really knew them well. They lived halfway down Postgate Drive and I stopped by to say hello now and again. I had always admired their intricate home which took ages to build. They were a secretive lot though. Some said they belonged to a ‘Secret Service’.
I learned that night-time was their thing. The younger members ate remarkable amounts of fast food, while the adults, who had been through life changing events, were attracted to visiting others for drinks and snacks. Though no one seems sure of who they were visiting exactly. Except it was a life-giving exchange for both.
Whitby locals Alan and Marie, have kindly allowed me to share a couple their stunning photos (above and below) from their trek to visit endangered monarch butterflies overwintering in Mexico’s Sierra Chincua sanctuary. At about this time of year (Northern Hemisphere’s autumn) the butterflies migrate up to 3,000 miles from Canada and North America – an incredible natural phenomenon.* “The sound of their flapping was like light rain” says Alan. Their local guide, Raúl Hernández, remarked “if there was a god they would be here”, recalls Marie. Her thoughts drift back to when they heard, years later, that Raúl and fellow activist and manager of the federally protected Reserva de Biosfera de la Mariposa Monarca (Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve) were killed in suspicious circumstances. The tensions between local communities seeking sustainable tourism from the Reserve and others carrying out logging and clearcutting for avocado plantations underscore the forced marginalisation of human and butterfly from ancient lands.
The trip inspired Marie and Alan to do something for the Whitby butterfly population and other pollinators. So over a cuppa we started talking about that but the conversation seemed to have its own pathway, floating, butterfly-like, into discussions about living in a community and a collective culture in a local place.
Tree branches droop with the weight of millions of monarch butterflies, wings closed, in huge clusters of tightly packed formations. Their brown masses well camouflaged, resembling parts of the oyamel fir and pine forestsin which they overwinter in Mexico.
Photo credit here and above: Alan and Marie Roberts, Whitby
Edge of Things 