The Butterflies are Back

I was lost in thought I suppose. I get that way a lot. Sometimes I end up somewhere way down in a kind of valley where "thinking" covers me like a heavy fog on a cold morning. So the yellow creature of the air almost ran into me.

In the midst of the fog there was a butterfly. He or she had been in their own dark valley. How much "thinking" did it take to risk spinning that cocoon that would lead it to a surrounding pattern of thought that rendered it incapable of seeing any light?

Ah the purpose of that spinning is beyond what I do when I get too heavy in thought. The butterfly anticipates something more. Its pondering points toward a new beginning where old thoughts become simply bricks that will be used to build a temple to the sky.

I need some butterflies. This past season the world again turned toward that needed dark so that seeds could ponder growth in their graves of anticipation, trees could do their waiting as their empty branches reached toward the cold sky, and grasses could turn brown knowing that colors of Spring would not be rushed. So it was with the season of my soul. There was a lot of death and part of my ongoing "job" is to plant those seeds of lives lived and speak words beside graves that give grieving people the hope that a Spring will indeed come. But the job has its "side effects." I find myself, if not careful, becoming heavy with thought.

So I welcome the season of butterflies. This bouncing yellow angel of creation seemed to whisper in the breeze, "Hey wake up. I did....the time of pondering is over for a while...live life now."

Perhaps the skeptic will say, "Ah but butterflies do not talk." But they do if we listen. An old prophet who was lost in thought long ago found this truth the day the creator of butterflies asked him why he was so down on himself. The heavy with the task prophet responded from his dark cave of hiding that the "work" was just too much. So the story unfolds and earthquake, wind, and fire appeared...I suppose to get the old boys attention. But the truth he needed came in the form of a "still small voice." One translation says, "the sound of gentle stillness."

It's time to listen to the butterflies. It's the season of resurrection and that's worth pondering with ones eyes open and an ear to the breeze.

Blessings
jody