“Please, give me a sign,” I ask the universe*. Immediately, a butterfly flits closer and perches gently on my bare foot. I watch it for a long time, how the sun gleams off the velvety brown and blue of its wings, the microscopic movements it makes, how effortlessly it tumbles up into the air again. This probably qualifies as a sign, I think. A part of me feels annoyed – if it really is a sign, then it means I have to do the hard things I have been putting off.
On the other hand, I think, a butterfly was bound to land on me at some point. I’ve been reading my book in this patch of sun for at least an hour. It’s springtime, the air is thick with the scent of blossoms. Insects abound. This could be a sign if I want it to be, but realistically it’s just cute happenstance.
A few minutes later, a boomslang drops from the sky and lands at my feet.
It’s hard to explain the bone-deep weirdness of seeing a live snake fly squirmingly through the air. A snake on the ground can be scary, but at least that’s where we expect to see it. This, though, feels deeply, instinctually, wrong. Inside my ribcage my prehistoric self begins to howl, and within milliseconds my body is shaking so hard that I can barely stand. Even as I lurch away, though, a tiny part of my brain has already noticed the following things: That the snake doesn’t even know I am here. That it is already back to climbing the tree it fell from, blindingly fast – one moment it’s coiled around the base of the trunk, the next it’s reached the lower branches, then it disappears into the upper foliage again.
This is super interesting, the calm part of my brain tells me. I am having a very rare experience.
Relaxing under trees is ruined for me forever, the scared part responds.
There are birds, many, many birds, chattering, hopping from branch to branch, the larger ones diving into the tree again and again to try and dislodge the snake once more. I have never seen so many bird species congregate; I count at least seven kinds. Their behaviour reminds me of humans at a bar-fight: Most are just hopping around shouting instructions, a few flit about to try and get a better view, the larger ones swoop at the snake, with the largest of them all, an olive thrush, clearly acting as the self-appointed hero. Over and over he attacks, the whole tree shaking (by now I am standing out of the drop zone), while the boomslang strikes back with puffed-up jowls and swinging neck. Neither animal seems to be winning. For twenty minutes I stand there watching the tiny sunbirds twitter insults from a safe distance, the thrush dive and dive again, until gradually all the birds lose interest and the snake remains, coiled tight around the topmost branches, the winner by dint of sticking it out.

***
It’s been a long, weird winter. The Garden Route probably has some of the mildest climates of anywhere in South Africa; but the tail end of various Cape storms did still strike us, and sometimes strike us hard. The first half of winter was unexpectedly wet, the second half ominously dry. We’ve had gale force winds that were so strong that Dave and I would lie in bed like shipwreck survivors, clinging to each other as the house staggered around us. We’ve had dozens of uprooted trees and endless driftwood wash up on the ocean shores, strewn across the beaches as far as the eye could see. We’ve had nights so cold that I slept with leg warmers and a scarf on. We also had recurring warm bergwinds turning the days yellowish and dusty, overlaying everything with an uneasy energy, with the sense of something not quite arrived.
To me it felt as if this winter was unable to decide what it wanted to be. Deep into July I still caught myself waiting with bated breath for the season that was about to come, for long days of clouds and rain instead of these occasional bursts of intensity. And underneath all these strange climate phenomena there seemed to be a singular shift, like a dragon rolling over in its sleep, pulling the weather like a blanket in its wake.
It was a winter of change, basically. A winter that hinted at stranger things to come, of the unknown at our doorstep.
Did you know that trees form buds in early autumn, rather than in spring? Inside these buds are layers of meristematic tissue, cells standing at the ready in the shape of the leaves they will become. For months, all through late autumn and winter, the buds lie dormant while the tree dozes, and drinks (if it’s in a winter rainfall area, like we are), and dozes again. This is true even for evergreen trees. Then, come the lengthening of days, the buds that were already there push forward until they unfurl into a new layer of tender green, making visible to us what was there all along.
And since we’re talking of resting, waiting, deep change – if we’re talking metamorphosis – what better symbols than the butterfly and the snake? Ridiculously, it actually takes me a few hours after the snake lands at my feet before I realise its extravagant, obvious symbolism. I mean, what’s next – a burning bush?
(Wait, actually there was a burning bush too. Controlled veld fires a few kilometres away, to be exact, their billowing pillars of smoke dissipating over the forest.)
The day I ask the universe for a sign is one of the first official days of spring, and for once the actual weather agrees with the calendar. The air is thicker somehow. I feel stretchy, loamy, and a bit discombobulated by the arrival of spring, when winter had never quite landed. On the one hand I am eager to start hatching all the plans and intentions I have been sitting on. On the other, my inertia feels almost impossible to overcome. I’m not sure how to begin converting my winter energy into actual forward motion.
The most accurate description I can find for my current energetic state is to recall the image of a grub: Pale and chubby, with tiny legs wriggling fruitlessly at its sides while the abdomen distends cheerfully in all directions, preventing any forward movement whatsoever. That’s me right now. It’s not a bad feeling exactly, except when I develop the urge to move, which is when I notice that my many stubby legs don’t actually touch the ground. Then I can get quite panicky, waggling and waving my larval body about frantically in the hopes of getting somewhere, anywhere. I have no idea how to get unstuck; all I know is that there is a stirring in me that tells me it is almost time. But time for what?
I feel as if this winter told me that the world is about to get weirderer and weirderer, that I (and perhaps the entire human species) need to come up with new paradigms and creative new ways of living. That doesn’t mean I know how to prepare myself, however. And every time I try to feel within myself for a good strategy, the only clear response my gut gives me is: Just do the next right thing. Which is a really frustrating answer when life feels so very large, and the next right thing so very small.
Want a clearer answer? The universe asks me. Here’s a butterfly. You can figure this one out.
Oh, and here’s a snake.

* I use “universe” as a placeholder for The Everything That Is, because it’s shorter. Feel free to mentally replace with your own shorthand (personally I also really like “the mystery”, “the known and unknown gods”, and “WTF even”.)
Amazing work Risha, I am stunned by the quality of your writing. Can't wait to read your next book ;)
Superblessed with gratitude 🙏
Absolutely beautiful 😍