I don’t remember when I first noticed the butterflies. Perhaps while watering my garden, or checking the mail, or attempting to revive a gasping pot plant. Maybe I didn’t notice them first at all. It could have been my toddler, shrieking as one darted by.
Whatever it was, soon they were impossible to ignore. Every garden on my street was overtaken by the same white critters. Even the hardest of hearts would have felt like a Disney princess.
My beloved nasturtiums were among the casualties of the cabbage butterflies.Credit: Steven Siewert
In the morning, I’d watch them flit across my sunburnt lawn, enlivening fading foliage with the vibration of wings. Truth be told, I was as delighted as my two-year-old. But while their charm was undeniable, the novelty faded as they crowded every natural and man-made surface in sight.
Standing in my yard one afternoon, my mum offered her perspective on the new residents. “They’re not butterflies, but moths,” she corrected me. “Cabbage moths, in fact.”
Defensive of my mysterious slice of suburban whimsy I countered: “Whatever they’re called, they’re lovely.”
Privately though, I had started to feel uneasy over their ballooning numbers. Whether due to my temperament or generation, I have a tendency to look for the shadow beneath lovely things.
Admiring a brilliant sunset, unseasonably warm day or flower blooming out of season, I’m quick to wonder what ecological horror is behind it. A lifetime entwined with social and natural disasters has taught me that unexplained occurrences are rarely endearing in origin.
Which is probably why initially I resisted the impulse to reach for my phone and Google “cabbage moth explosion”. Deep down, I knew: just as with those sunsets, warm days and out-of-season flowers, the mass influx of my new garden friends was likely not good. When a neighbour attempted to break into small talk with, “what’s with all the butterflies?” I’d change the topic or brush it off: “Who knows, just enjoy it.”
I thought not Googling everything would set me free. Instead, it ruined my garden
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07.04.2024
I don’t remember when I first noticed the butterflies. Perhaps while watering my garden, or checking the mail, or attempting to revive a gasping pot plant. Maybe I didn’t notice them first at all. It could have been my toddler, shrieking as one darted by.
Whatever it was, soon they were impossible to ignore. Every garden on my street was overtaken by the same white critters. Even the hardest of hearts would have felt like a Disney princess.
My beloved nasturtiums were among the casualties of the cabbage........
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