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Illustration by Christine Wei
The praying mantis arrived in early September, landing on a stalk of a pitcher plant that was set out on the deck behind our house. My husband Brian would put his carnivorous plant out on warm days, allowing it to enjoy visits from flies attracted to its nectar. By nightfall, the insect, perfectly camouflaged against the tendrils of the plant, hitched a ride into our house. The next morning, Brian expected it to fly away. But that was not how this story played out.
A praying mantis is an insect within the genus Mantid, in the family Mantidae, of the order Mantodea. Mantis means “prophet” in Greek and the praying mantis carries rich spiritual significance on its delicate frame. Likely owing to its posture – front limbs gracefully folded – the mantis is a symbol of prayer’s non-theistic equivalents: mindfulness, patience, contemplation, stillness and a deep connection with nature. A visit from a praying mantis is considered a spiritual gift, a dispatch to slow down, observe and align with a higher spiritual purpose.
The on-the-ground reality was a bit grittier. Our mantis – which we nicknamed Manty – hung out on the pitcher plant like an arthropod porch-pirate, snatching up flies before they could crawl into the plant’s trap. Rotating her head as much as 180 degrees in either direction, Manty acquired her targets with ease, stalking them with a series of slow, imperceptible shifts. With her position optimized, Manty would wait for the fly to expose itself for the strike. Her front limbs – those praying arms – morphed into spring-loaded claws, trapping her prey in a swift, calculated motion. Manty never rushed her attack or attempted an out-of-range target. If the fly shuffled away, Manty retreated, awaiting her next opportunity.
Mantids eat only living insects, taking up to 30 minutes to consume their meal. As the mantid has no need to kill its prey as a goal separate from its consumption, death does not come quickly. Connecting with nature, mantodean-style, reveals one of its less convenient truths: nature values efficiency over kindness.
Around mid-September, Brian came upon Manty engaged in a courtship ritual with two transient male suitors. Manty had, by that time, established full squatter’s rights on the pitcher plant whose schedule she adopted. Each morning, we would find her at the top of the stalk closest to the window, luxuriating in the early morning sun in what appeared to be a meditative state: breathing slowed, tracking gaze inactivated.
She spent her days outdoors reducing the local fly population. We witnessed her consume between four to eight flies over the course of the day and it’s not as though we had (yet) set up camp just watching her all day. We wondered why she needed so much nourishment. She hardly ever moved; even her hunting mode was contemplative, an exercise in leisurely grace.
We got our answer in early October when it became obvious that Manty was eating for two (hundred). As her belly continued to swell, we researched what to expect (when your mantid is expecting). Within three weeks, Manty would be laying her eggs in a foamy mass that, once hardened, would protect the eggs until spring. Manty continued to hunt furiously. When the weather was too blustery to put the plant outside, we fed Manty honey on the end of a stick. She quickly learned how to negotiate this novelty, ultimately turning her head away like a baby who had had enough. Even indoors, she managed to hunt, leaving disembodied wasp heads on the plate underneath the pitcher plant, like a character from “World’s Stupidest Criminals.”
Manty was always free to leave, and one day in mid-October, she did. A careful examination of the pitcher plant failed to reveal her. We would miss her tracking our movements as we moved within her world. We didn’t have to miss her for long: later that day, Brian spied Manty on the outdoor wall of our house, laying her frothy concoction on the edge of an electrical receptacle. The egg case was perfectly camouflaged against the wall’s gray stucco, the crevice providing some extra protection. After spending several hours expelling foam, Manty found her way back to the pitcher plant before sunset.
Manty has another two weeks to live, her six-month shot at life nearly spent. She won’t die of cold like other Mantids – we are in too deep to leave her out in the November frost – but her body is noticeably aging. What a gift it has been, to share time and space with Manty, to experience her totemic significance, a spiritual inkblot. This simplest of organisms shares routines, decisions and goals not so different from our own and in some ways pursues them more perfectly. Manty knows how to bask in the sun and knows when to keep her head on a swivel. Her purpose is clear, her focus singular. No energy is wasted, neither on movement nor regret. She accepts good fortune at face value. She doesn’t overcomplicate things. If we are lucky, maybe another Mantid will visit us next spring, one who will have bided the long cold winter on the side of our house.
Karen Raymer lives in Dundas, Ont.