I’m not a particularly superstitious person. I’ve owned more than one black cat; I have no inhibitions about walking under ladders; and a broken mirror is nothing more than an inconvenience. But I do have a deep respect for spirituality, and that is often where the line blurs for people.
I have a special affinity for Celtic and Native American spirituality. I remember spending countless hours in the school library during my pre-teen years, perusing scores of film strips on Native American mythology. When those were consumed, I moved on to books.
According to my family’s oral history (it is said this history has been researched and written somewhere, but I have yet to find a copy), my family came to the America on the Mayflower. Somewhere along the line (I’m not even sure if it’s the same family line), a great grandmother was adopted by the Iroquois Nation, fractionally making me 1/16th Native American, I guess. Perhaps this explains the fascination.
I can only guess at the accuracy and legitimacy of these stories, but in the realm of self-myth making, well oral history is generally enough. So here in lies my acceptance of Native American lore. There is a universal respect in Native American traditions that I find comforting. So when the ladybugs came, I decided to listen.
Many years ago, I was told my totem animal was the fox—a small creature that relied on its speed and cunning for survival—an animal with an astonishing ability to adapt to its environment. If there is anything I am good at in life, it is adapting . . . sometimes too well. Sometimes, I loose myself in the role that I’m playing and I have to struggle to get back out. That was the source of my own internal conflict last week.
I have served as the Director of Student Services at a local college for the past year. I enjoy the work. I find great satisfaction in helping students reach their full potential. But then it began to dawn on me that I had drifted away from my full potential. I am, at my core, an artist. Music, painting, writing, that’s what truly feeds my soul. That’s what makes me feel whole and complete . . . yet, I had drifted away. Though I had dedicated myself to a noble cause, I knew that it was quickly becoming a hollow accomplishment.
It was during that week that my daughter first noticed the lady bugs, in a small evergreen next to the front door. She would stop and stare at them, “four,” she counted out loud.
“That’s great dear, ladybugs are good luck,” I told her absent mindedly as I moved her over the threshold.
Each day she stopped to stare. Each day becoming more and more emphatic that I stop and look. “Mira mama. More ladybugs!”
During this same week, I was becoming more and more agitated. Something was pressing at me, eating at me. Finally at the end of the week, when I was no longer forced to play my role, I snapped. The frustration poured out in tears and harsh words. I had done it again. I had drifted from what I loved most, to what I could do easily, and I was miserable.
The next day we went past the evergreen again. I stopped to look. There were more than just a few, the little beetles where everywhere! Like the ornaments on an overcrowded Christmas tree. I recognized some as ladybugs, but the others I had never seen before. I pondered the possibility of what they could be, before it began to dawn on me. I quickly went inside to confirm my suspicion—a massive metamorphosis. The evergreen was adorned with every stage of the ladybug lifecycle.
I don’t believe in coincidences. So I searched again. “Totem Animal . . . ladybug”
What I discovered in my search is that the ladybug is a messenger of promise who reconnects us with the joy of living. The ladybug reminds us to release our fears and return to that inner passion—to let go—to get out of our own way.
So here I am, writing. Not the analytical theories and convoluted structures of a Master’s thesis, but the intimate truth of my own mysterious existence: re-examing, revitalizing, rewriting—a metamorphosis.
[As an interesting side note: Before I published this post, and before I told this story to anyone else, a friend of mine gave me a “thinking of you” card . . . with a glittering ladybug on the cover. Hmmmm]



Do butterflies speak French? “Maybe” says Fancy Nancy, the endearing character created by Jane O’Connor and Robin Preiss Glasser, the bestselling team behind the 2007 Quill Award nominated Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy. Bonjour, Butterfly is the latest in the Fancy Nancy franchise, and a picture book triumph!
Move over Paris Hilton, there’s a new pampered princess in town—a pampered puppy princess that is. This pampered puppy princess is far from petty though, she has her . . . um . . . priorities straight (sorry—the alliteration is positively contagious).
I have a three-year-old daughter, and like any three-year-old, she loves the holidays. We decorate, watch holiday themed videos, and participate in holiday themed parties at her daycare and her favorite local attractions. However, as a mother who is concerned about creating healthy eating habits, the holidays can pose a problem. Many of them encourage the consumption of dubious amounts of candy.

