In the garden this week, I stood between two monarchs.
The first was radiant, a male with wings whole and shining, glowing like stained glass in the sun. He lingered on yellow blooms, unhurried, gathering strength. He was part of the great migratory generation born at summer’s end, destined to fly thousands of miles south to the mountains of Mexico. His strength was endurance—the quiet, steady power to carry life forward against impossible odds.
Not far away, another male rested. His wings were frayed, his orange muted, his movements slower, more fragile. He would not migrate. He had lived his brief summer here in Chicago, flying, feeding, and seeking out mates to ensure the cycle continued. His strength was completion—the courage to spend himself fully in service of life, even as his hours dwindled in the September light.
To see them together was to glimpse both beginning and ending, side by side. Two males, each embodying a different face of strength: one in the vigor of endurance, the other in the grace of letting go.
Gardens hold these stories quietly—life rising, life fading, the handoff from one generation to the next. The Morgan Street Native Garden is more than flowers and soil; it is a living stage where strength takes many shapes, where beauty reveals itself most clearly at the edge of change.
Two monarchs. Two journeys. Two kinds of strength.