I grew up next to meadows that were rarely if ever cut, in the 1980's (Northeastern US). As a young child I'd often find Monarch caterpillars, and was sometimes allowed to keep them in a small, strange box molded from glass and known as a terrarium. I'd feed them milkweed until they reached the pupal stage, then watch with wonder as the chrysalis changed from a jade-like, gold-rimmed ornament into a transparent capsule of folded orange-black wings. Finally, when the new insect emerged, we watched and waited (with still more patience) for the wings to dry, leading up to release day, when the butterfly was suddenly gone in a dash toward the sky.<p>Guided by my grandmother, an amateur naturalist, these were my first experiences leading to a knowledge of change, lifecycle, and above all the beauty to be found in the natural world. This simple gestation process of a curious looking caterpillar is impressed on me like no other early childhood memory. A process taking weeks, it was my first consciousness of time.<p>Today, those meadows are acres and acres of trimmed lawn. The smooth aesthetic of green grass pocked with dandelion has won over the wildness of a milkweed dotted field. But me, I've forsworn all lawn mowing, and should I ever own a meadow, will let it go to seed.