Moonlore - Publisher's Essay
Claiming Our Magical Moments
"The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough."
~ Author: Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941) Bengali poet, novelist, composer 'Stray Birds'
She waited for her wings to straighten and dry, carefully tested them, then flew to the nearest flower. I sat watching, transformed with childhood memories. This butterfly was a tiger swallowtail, her lemon wings delicately striped with black and adorned by a few tiny spots of blue and red. As a child, our elms were a haven for the black wings and golden bands of the mourning cloaks. They too carried blue spots, but theirs were owned in abundance.
Although their basic colors are the same, their wings are complete opposites, as are their personalities. The dark mourning cloaks look furry; the sunny swallowtails are sleek. Many a mourning cloak sat upon my hand, wings frozen for long minutes, perhaps feigning death due to fear, perhaps not afraid at all, just comfortable to be my companion. I'd despaired of ever touching a swallowtail. Both the tiger and zebra swallowtails inhabited my youth but only as fleeting companions. Ever restless, they were rarely still, dining quickly, then lifting for flight with little chance for me to coax them onto my fingertip. Until this morning, when she emerged in my presence, not yet ready to leave and content to sit upon my fingertip for a lengthy visit of shared beauty.
My childhood dream was complete, but the adult me was disconcerted. Look at the time I wasted. I had things to do. The phone had rung unanswered while I sat waiting and watching. What if it had been an emergency? What if someone needed me — right now? Like they usually do. I sighed and gave in.
For a moment — just one moment — I'd thought of me. And now I felt...ashamed? Selfish? Thoughtless?
Oh, screw that noise. I shoved the invisible voices of guilt away. And then defied them. I took myself back to childhood once more, smiling at the memory of an old legend my father told.
"Our creator loves watching children play, so she sends puddles to splash in, bird feathers to tickle them and the sun to kiss their face. Back in the beginning of the world, as she watched the first children at play, she grew sad. She knew these children would grow up. They wouldn't have time to play because they would have families to care for and then they'd have to leave their families behind because life on earth isn't permanent. Her sadness brought tears that fell as rain. The rain grew the trees, grass and flowers. But something was still missing. She longed to give them one more thing that would always bring smiles to their faces.
"For a special present, she took a bit of yellow from the sun's rays, a tad of blue from the sky, a wee bit of green from the pine needle, a dash of white from cornmeal and a sliver of black from a young girl's hair. She gathered red, purple and orange from the flowers too. Each color she collected was placed in a bag, which she gave to the children. When the children opened the bag to peer inside, thousands of colorful butterflies flitted out, dancing around the children and landing upon their arms and face. The children giggled and laughed, the prettiest sound our Creator ever heard. She wants children to laugh forever, so every spring she fills her bag of color and lets the butterflies free again."
The butterfly's journey is one of rebirth, growing from caterpillar to chrysalis to winged marvel. Scientists say one flap of a butterfly's wings can stir the air enough to create a hurricane on the other side of the world. It is hard to imagine their delicate wings as powerful enough to wreak havoc upon the ecosystem of an entire region, a region whose children are unable to see the butterfly that starts it all. Such mystery and wonder, like life itself.
Butterflies inspired me. Could I create beauty and joy? I tried. I wrote, painted, knitted and sewed. I glued and pasted nature's bounty upon baskets and in frames. Mostly I learned. Seeking to become ever better at my quest, I gathered knowledge as diligently as I gathered leaves and pressed flowers between the pages of my books. And then I grew up.
Life changed. I sat in traffic, attending to endless errands. I solved financial problems for the companies who hired me. I came home to clean house and help my children with homework. Time with butterflies was forgotten.
Until today. I was mindlessly filling trash cans with weeds from a cluttered yard when I spied the wiggling chrysalis. Whoever was inside was impatient to be born. I forgot the urgency of trashing weeds before their seeds left their pods. I forgot my duties and waited. The sun, so low in the sky when I'd emerged from my house that morning, sailed high, then began its descent as I wasted daylight. Still I waited. Delighted to see her wriggle free, leaving her prison behind to feel the warm air upon her wet skin. She raised her antennae, ready to meet the world. She pulled her wings loose from where they touched her back, and lifted them slowly for the first time. She was careful when she moved her fragile wings for the first time. They were new, unfamiliar, as was her view of life, yet, at last, she dared to fly away.
How had I forgotten the magic? How had I wandered away from my dreams? The phone rang again. I didn't move, still watching her flit from flower to flower, gaining strength from the nectar. Where had the years gone? What had I created?
In memory, childhood moved into my adult years. I'd created love or it created me. Once again, I saw his handsome smile and laughing eyes. Once again, I smiled in return. I looked up, hoping to glimpse his face in the clouds, that face I still missed. I could feel his arms around me once again and I remembered the nights, the hours we spent, the divine embrace that flew us close to heaven. Those moments of creation. Nothing could replace them.
My daughter's car pulled into my driveway. "Mom, are you okay?"
I nodded. "Never better." I got up and hugged her. My grandson ran around the corner. I pointed at the butterfly, now ready to leave me forever. We watched — we three — as it rose again and disappeared over the fence. I wished my other daughter was here. I knew she watches too, sitting on her patio, binoculars in hand. Picturing her there, enjoying the quiet of the high desert, added to my happiness. I found myself repeating the ancient legend once again, watching my words transform the face of my grandchild. This then is the magic I create. It shall be passed from generation to generation. The memory of this moment will live beyond his childhood years and into his old age. And then he'll share it again, just as I do now, when a butterfly brings a smile.
This then is our Creator's gift: the sharing of love, love given to me and love I've given to others. Like the bag of butterflies, love is overflowing, ready to bring magic and joy to this moment in time and to life eternal.
By Loretta Kemsley
Publisher/President
Women Artists and Writers International
Writer, Editor and Editorial Coach
Loretta Kemsley's Personal Portfolio: Women's Writings
http://lores.lair.moondance.org/