Come here, I want to tell you a secret.
It’s one that I’m almost sure of, and by the time you’re finished reading, you will be too. But let me warn you, because once you know it, you can’t unknow it. It’s about you, me, and everyone we know, and everyone who ever has been, and everyone who ever will be.
But first, I want to welcome you back to Insects are Fairies, a summer entomology series. I’ve been on a writing hiatus, so thank you to those who’ve been following along for your patience. Together, we’ll study the mysteries of the wild world and ourselves through the lens of our co-evolutionary history with insects. This week, we’ll spend time with the beetle (and weevil) order, otherwise known as Coleoptera, which in etymological terms means “sheath wing”.
Alright, here is the secret, as plain as I can make it: you used to be a beetle. Everyone, most likely, used to be many, many beetles, and probably will be beetles again. We human beings are made out of molecules of proteins, minerals, and water. These components that have temporarily configured themselves into their current form as our cells and tissues and bones - they did not originate with us. Those base ingredients of our bodies have been cycling through life forms on this planet, in this universe, for a long, long time.
Almost as long as, say, the order of beetles. 350 million years ago, the most successful body type to ever evolve on this planet emerged. Since then, it has diversified into over 400,000 known species, with more still being discovered all the time. It is estimated that 1 in 4 animals on Earth is a beetle. And given that many, not all, but many of those beetles are decomposers, as in, they feed on dead animal flesh and plant matter, that puts them at the forefront of the transfer of molecules from one species to another. Statistically, given the timeline, ecological niche, and sheer abundance of beetles on Earth, the chances of your molecules NOT being a part of a beetle at some point would be vanishingly small.
The decomposer beetles may be some of the hardest workers on Earth. Take the carrion beetle that breaks down animal flesh, or the saproxylic beetles that help break down dead wood, or the dung beetles that dine on poop. They don’t just spend their time out to lunch. Their job is as essential as the garbage removal workers of human society. They do the physical work of sourcing the dead organic matter, sometimes extending immense energy to move it (as is the case with dung beetles, which can lift over 1000 times their body weight in fresh manure), burrowing their way inside of it, eating, and laying their eggs where they will be well-fed upon hatching.
But their role as master decomposers doesn’t end there. You could be forgiven if, when you read the word “decomposer”, you thought of fungi. They are famous for their stunning evolutionary innovation of being able to break down the tough cellulose of woody plants with an arsenal of enzymes. However, as with the seeds of plants, the appearance of the right fungus in the best environment for it to grow doesn’t happen automatically. Like the fur coat of a coyote carrying a dogbane seed miles from its parent plant before dropping it in a new meadow, beetles carry and inoculate substrate with fungal spores. Further, the microbes in their gut get deposited within their own dung, which together with the fungi make a perfect decomposition team. Beetles are both gardeners of fungi, and fermenters of bacteria. This is how a fallen oak tree becomes a boon of biodiversity, supporting even more species in its decomposition than it did as a living tree.
The sect of decomposer beetles are at the forefront of the life/death/life cycle, a term coined by author Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph D. But there are other ways to engage that cycle other than decomposing dead organic matter, and the beetles have been quite promiscuous with their diet in all those hundreds of millions of years of evolution. Some are hunters, like the familiar ladybug we delight to see in our gardens. They can eat around 5000 aphids in a lifetime, efficiently digesting these pests into the tiniest of fairy scat most of us wouldn’t even notice.
There are also instances of plant-eating beetles that farmers and gardeners are well aware of: potato beetles on solanaceous crops like tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and of course potatoes. We readily recognize the iridescent, clumsy Japanese beetles that feed on rose and mint family plants (but aren’t picky), and flea beetles, which are the reason why we grow brassicas under insect netting during the height of the season. What you may not clock right away, though, is that some beetles may also do damage underground by eating plant roots. If you’re big into manicured lawns, you probably battle it out with grubs, those milky-white, C-shaped wormy guys with little legs right under their hungry mouths. They may be the larva of June bugs, or Japanese beetles, or any number of other beetle species. A meticulously kept lawn gives easy access for adult beetles to lay eggs in the surface of the soil. Raccoons, opossums, and other grub-lovers also love to dig up the turf to eat them. If you want to prevent an infestation and not attract any unwanted lawn-diggers, avoid cutting your grass shorter than 3”. I learned that tip in an arborist certification course. In my own experience, as someone with plenty of land work to do, I neglect mowing as long as I can and don’t have many issues with Japanese beetles. I also don’t end up with ugly dead-brown grass in a drought, even though I don’t irrigate it. But let’s move on, before I offend someone who loves a golf-course look for their yard!
While beetles are among the most numerous and diverse group of animals on the planet, they all have one thing in common: they undergo a complete metamorphosis. While butterflies and moths get the fanfare for this, with their dramatic display from egg, to caterpillar, to chrysalis/cocoon, to flying adult, the same is true for the humble beetles. Their transformation is just as dramatic, ends in wings, and they boast an incredible variety of vibrant jewel-toned colors and patterns. If you aren’t convinced that beetles are fairies, just imagine a summer night full of the blinking glow of lightening bugs. Those bioluminescent beetles could enchant even the grumpiest hill troll (or burnt-out farmer).
Not all fairies have to be graceful, benevolent, or showy all the time. In mythology from all over the world, it is the dual nature of fairies that makes them who they are. In fact, I would argue that the bugs that are a little ugly or play tricks on us in the garden exemplify the role of fairies even better than the angelic insects we tend to admire most.
Unfortunately, in many places throughout history, beetles receive little of the reverence afforded to fairies. In English mythology, the death watch beetle was given its name by the belief that when a you heard the clicking sound of the beetle calling for a mate that it meant a loved one was soon to die. In the olden days of Germany, people blamed the stag beetle for house fires, claiming that they used their large pinchers to carry hot coals into the house and drop them where they could combust. Even today, most people (lady bug, the exception) only notice beetles when they are being a pest in the garden.
The ancient Egyptians were an exception. The scarab beetle was seen as the symbol of regeneration that it truly is. The brute strength of a scarab or dung beetle rolling its prize across the sand resembled the sun god Ra as he rolled the sun across the sky each day. The beetle appears on amulets, in paintings, and positioned over the heart of mummies at burial. The larva of beetles is a delicacy in places like Ghana, where Palm Weevil larva are eaten today as in pre-history. Evidence that humans benefitted from the rich nutrition and easy access to edible insects, including many beetles and their larva, has been found anywhere people lived in a warm climate. Today, scientists theorize that the abundance of fat and protein from this food source played a large role in the evolution of our big brains (more on that in the next installment).
Personally, I have been of two minds on beetles. I have seen whole beds, worth thousands of dollars, lost to flea beetles. Their army of tiny mouths leave behind skeletal lace where robust green bok choy leaves should have been. Their larva also have a habit of tunneling through the hakurei turnips with abandon, leaving behind a trail of light brown frass as insult to injury. I have had blister beetles fall down the front of my shirt, leaving large, long-to-heal water blisters in areas where the sun don’t shine. I have never figured out how to get my chickens to eat adult Japanese beetles, even though they love the grubs. Beetles are a formidable force on our food system, for better and for worse.
However, in this season of life, and having taken the time to learn more about them, I get the reverence that the ancient Egyptians had for them. I find myself at the edge of one of the human-versions of metamorphosis. Hormones are a universal mechanism among Earth’s organisms, after all. It’s hormones that trigger the larva to change, and hormones that trigger birth, puberty, reproduction, menopause, love, and grief.
In each of these transformations, we enter a new reality that we can never go back from. Metamorphosis only transforms us forward, never in reverse. And if we are to handle it with grace, it means getting good at saying goodbye to the molting layers and what they once meant to us.
Lately, it feels like I’ve been saying goodbye a lot. To say goodbye is to acknowledge the life/death/life cycle, whether we want to or not. We say goodbye when we part ways, even temporarily, either consciencely or subconsciously knowing that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Sometimes, we say goodbye knowing that there won’t be another hello. There are many kinds of death we all experience, from the end of a life, to the end of an era, to the end of a relationship. Most long-lived relationships experience many deaths, and are reborn anew. Until they’re not. In time, we all must say goodbye.
Something of a super-power that the insect class has over us is their rapid lifecycle, marked by millions and billions of deaths in the average lifespan of a human being. We can personify that as a sad thing and take it to mean that they live less life than we do. Or, more scientifically, we can agree that it means that with each turn of the lifecycle they undergo, they have more opportunities to adapt. They outnumber us, and they evolve faster than us. They develop resistance to pesticides faster than we can make new ones, let alone faster than our bodies can adapt to these substances in our food and environment. They always will, thanks to their rapid turnover rate.
The question of whether the insects have their own ways of saying goodbye is not what I thought I would end up asking as a part of this series. Does a grub know when it’s about to change from an underground larva to a shiny beetle? Does a caterpillar know when they’re sealing themselves up in a chrysalis if they will emerge with wings? When the cicadas go underground in fall, do they know they will emerge 13-20 years later to scream from the trees? What would it feel like to come completely undone, just to reconfigure as an unrecognizable version of you on the other side?
It’s worth asking them, and if you do, let me know what happens. Short of any direct answer or intuition, I wouldn’t be surprised if someday science figures out how to measure their hormone fluctuations, a prerequisite of feelings. We now know that migratory birds have a spike of testosterone and corticosterone when it’s time to make a trip down south. Hormone systems, as universal as they are among life on Earth, allow us common ground with even the most biologically diverse species. We know what stress feels like, and we recognize its hormonal expressions in other-than-humans. The mechanics of empathy can also be explained in terms of hormones, especially oxytocin, the “love hormone”. This is what we experience when we sit down to eat together, cuddle a pet, or play with our children. It’s there when we experience compassion and/or affection for one another.
Imagine a hormonal transformation as complete as metamorphosis. We humans can only relate through our biggest hormonal transformations. Our trans siblings experience their transitions in addition to all the rest. These processes are not linear, but they do move us forward. Like hanging onto the rim of a wheel, we swing down, then up, and back down again. And while the ups and downs may be all-consuming in the moment, we can look back and realize the wheel has been moving us forward all along, even if we didn’t know where we were headed at the time.
I know many of us have been getting crunched like a beetle underneath the wheel lately. This is a low phase, the time to say goodbye, the death part of the life/death/life cycle. Our farm community recently said goodbye to Jodi, a workershare, friend, and subscriber to this substack. She will always be cherished for her positive mental attitude, enthusiasm for good food, and thoughtfulness around the future of land, water, and human nature. She set an example of the kind of elder that I aspire to be someday. She was one of the first to encourage me to share my writing more publicly, and I miss her. On workershare Wednesdays, when she would usually be working in the wash area, her laugh echoing throughout the farm, we can all feel her absence. When we got together for our last potluck together, I asked her if I could plant a tree in her honor. She said yes. I asked what species she would like, and she chose an oak.
I think it’s fitting, maybe even more than she knew. The oak is like a Noah’s Arc of life, supporting thousands of species in life and in death, while steadfastly holding the soil in place against flood and erosion.
At the same time, I’ve also slowly, quietly been saying goodbye to some dreams that have been slipping further out of reach. I won’t get into too much detail, because I want to hold out for unknowable possibilities that may still come. But some of the goals I have been researching and planning for years, including agroforestry (farming with trees) and animal husbandry (tree-range chickens), have to be put out to pastures of fantasy for now. With doors closing on loans and grants that we had counted on, and the cost of living spiraling out of control, I have to keep my head out of the clouds and my feet firmly planted on the solid ground we do have: paying off the land. I’ve been researching some more marketable trades to pursue, while Caleb continues on with the CSA.
I’m saying goodbye to another dream, an even loftier aim - and maybe it was too indulgent to have two big dreams in the first place. Regardless, I’m closing the chapter on traditionally publishing my novel for now. If you follow the news of the publishing world, you already know why. If you don’t, well, let me fill you in on the plagiarism machines, Amazon book scams, the literacy crisis, and AI witch hunts.
Suffice it to say that the onslaught of AI slop in agents’ inboxes and the self-pub marketplace, the lack of author’s rights against accusations and plagiarism, shrinking and consolidating imprints, and some publishers’ willingness to use the very generative AI that they cancel contracts over have diminished chances of success from slim to almost none for aspiring debuts. Every day, my feed is full of publishing professionals and published authors talking about how it takes multiple books to make the equivalent of a living wage, how most sucessful writers are able to persist long enough because of their partner’s income subsidizing their existence, how we need to be marketing managers and build an independent brand to sell our own books, and spend 10-20% of whatever advance we get on promoting ourselves on meta and tiktok and Amazon. The same companies that are plagiarizing books en masse with their LLMs. It feels like competing to be fed into a meat grinder.
I will always write, regardless of the publishing playing field. It’s not really something you can quit if it’s just in you to do it. But realistically, I never would have considered the trials and tribulations of publishing if I didn’t think there was at least a chance of making money to help pay off the farm. I wrote the manuscript, and I loved writing it, and maybe someday if things improve for writers I will dust it off. But right now, I’m reading the room and evaluating my own circumstances. My time needs to be focused on generating the dollars we need to keep the farm afloat. I’d rather my labor go towards feeding people then creating art that an AI company will consume as data, while poisoning the land and evaporating the water we and future generations rely on.
I’m saying goodbye, again, to a season of life. Lately, my body has been changing. I feel the winds of perimenopause coming for me early. I’m not she-who-always-bounces-back from lack of sleep anymore, nor she-who-is-eager to overextend myself. Aside from my own offspring, whom I am deeply responsible for, I don’t follow people around with a glass of nettle infusion. I just drink it, and share if/when I’m asked for it. I don’t bend over backwards trying to understand people who don’t care to understand me. I’m not rushing to have a hard conversation out desperation for conflict resolution and acceptance. I am feeling the soft animal of my body harden, like a new exoskeleton.
I’m sad, but oddly at peace. I’m worried (of course, who isn’t) about the future, but I’m not really worried about me. I’ve come this far. I’ve chosen farming over any and all other opportunities there could have been for me. I’ve worked in agriculture every season since 2013. The only one who’s been with me as long as farming is my 14-year-old dingo dog, Mori. And even he is someone I will have to say goodbye to, at some point.
My people, my friends, my community, the insects and animals and plants and fungi. We are all connected through food and land first, then each other. When religious people talk about God in their marriage that way, I feel the same. But for for me, land is God. If I weren’t farming here, with these people, I would have been farming somewhere else with other people. I know it’s true for those I farm with, as well. And I’ve worked on enough farms to know that wherever you go, it’s still the same Earth. As different as two lands may be, it’s just like the difference between the nose and the forehead. It’s all part of the same face.
Perhaps no creatures on Earth understand the life/death/life cycle with an intimacy that rivals that of the beetles. May we learn from the strongest member of the animal kingdom by size when we must carry 1,141 times our own weight in shit. This creature shows us how we get through impossible times, and complete transformation. As we say goodbye to August, to summer, to 90+ degree heat and 90% humidity, remember that we are all previous and future beetles. But don’t worry, we’re in this together. I’ll see ya’ll at the top of whatever hill we’re climbing.
In love and bugs,
Farmer Rox
Absolutely beautiful writing. So very informative....looking forward to being a beetle.