I don’t remember what inspired me to step outside, but as often seems to be the case these days, the timing surely was intentional, with the upcoming discovery meant especially for me.
Once out on the patio, I turned only to have my attention instantly pulled toward movement. Inching closer to our wooden gardening stool, a swallowtail butterfly came into focus at the stool’s edge, unafraid and fluttering its wings. There, in all its beauty, I noticed the leading edge of one wing peculiarly curled. My first thought was that it had just emerged into the world, but studying its waving wings left little doubt; they were dry and set.
The butterfly rested for a moment then attempted to take flight, its short, faltering journey ending in a nosedive just a couple of feet away. I stooped to offer my extended finger as a perch, and the butterfly accepted, seeming grateful for the lift. Again, it tried to propel itself to the skies, and again soon found itself back on the ground. Once more I lifted my new friend from harm’s way, and this time he opted for a more casual means of travel.
He strolled around my hand, up my arm, all the way to the top of my head, his tiny feet tickling my cheek and ear along the way. Feeling blessed and in awe of the trusting comfort that connected us in that moment, I suddenly felt compelled to help keep my new friend safe. Butterflies naturally have such a short life span, and I knew with his wing condition, he would have an even shorter life ahead. My sadness deepened at the thought of him not being able to naturally float from sunshine to flowers – a limited but beautiful experience and purpose that now may never be fulfilled.
With night nearing, I gathered what foliage I could for a makeshift home in our guest bathroom, where he would be safe from any playful advances made by the cat. Once inside, I turned to my trusty friend Google, where some suggested a balanced and careful trimming of wings just might do the trick. The fear of harming him or his wings even more left me unwilling to take that risk. The next morning, I would bring him to the nearby Butterfly House, with hopes a skilled caretaker could offer a magical mend that allowed my winged friend to soar to his full potential.
Sadly, the next morning lifted neither my spirits nor his wings, when the entomologist explained that wing surgery was not something they performed or advocated. Spirit deflated and tears welling up, I returned to the parking lot with my makeshift butterfly carrier in hand, and we headed back home.
It took me a while to realize what it was that brought me to be so emotional over this silly little butterfly. Here I was, all too often reminded how fleeting life could be, with phases and ages passing so quickly. Somehow, at that moment, I identified with this delicate creature. Our connection was tied to more than its short lifespan that brought me to contemplate my own inevitable end. The twist of fate that crippled its wing threw a haunting shadow with a likeness of the infertility that denied me the joys of motherhood so long ago. And in that gut-wrenching moment of awareness, the tears began to pour.
The following week, my friend and I shared daily walks. I would transport him to the neighbor’s flower patch, where he would walk from one flower to the next. Back home, in the quiet isolation of his makeshift room, I fed him mashed bananas, the only thing out of many I tried that he would actually eat.
And then on the seventh day, our afternoon flower garden trip took a challenging turn. With skies starting to gray and a thunderstorm looming in the distance, my butterfly friend decided to again test his wings. This time he caught a gust of wind just right. Within seconds, he was in the nearby tree, a few feet out of reach. Panicked, I rushed inside to retrieve the longest object I could find. Despite my best efforts, I could not reach him, as he determinedly kept climbing higher and higher. At that point, my only choice was to let him go. In following his natural calling, his short life was now almost assuredly even shorter, and I no longer could serve as his protector.
My heart sank a bit for my friend at what lay ahead, but I was comforted in the belief he was savoring a fleeting taste of his intended life. Later he may be battered bird feed falling from the sky, but today, right now, all was well.
At that moment, the butterfly once again morphed, this time into my teacher, reminding me that in keeping ourselves safe within limits, we can deny ourselves of much. As I turned to walk back to the storm-free protection of my home, he seemed to call out to me in his magical butterfly voice, “Take your own leap of faith, my friend, so you too might land your own perch on high.”
I guess it’s time that I take flight despite my broken wings.
© 2019 HSE
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