Buttterflies on my windshield
Do butterflies have hearts?
I live in the midst of a butterfly migration route. At about this time every year, butterflies of all kinds paint the landscape - filling the breeze with tiny flaps of their wings. I always notice them when I'm driving, and because I think the universe revolves around me, I always take their passing as some kind of personal sign. Maybe I'm driving along with them, following the wind like they do. Maybe their crashing into my windshield, and I feel like God is trying to stop me in my tracks, sacrificing His little bursts of beauty to tell me something truly profound. Or maybe - and this is the idea I've been playing with this migration, maybe - I'm following my heart, listening to a calling within myself, like a butterfly.
And then -smack- one meets its demise on my windshield, fluttering hopelessly, beating its wings just a few last times as it sails onto the hot pavement called Ware Rd. I close my eyes, no God, I don't want to see these little creatures die in pursuit of a yearning. No God - these butterflies are the ultimate romantics; they are the martyrs of their own tiny insect hearts.
Can we learn something from the butterfly? Or is it more like a warning?
I live in the midst of a butterfly migration route. At about this time every year, butterflies of all kinds paint the landscape - filling the breeze with tiny flaps of their wings. I always notice them when I'm driving, and because I think the universe revolves around me, I always take their passing as some kind of personal sign. Maybe I'm driving along with them, following the wind like they do. Maybe their crashing into my windshield, and I feel like God is trying to stop me in my tracks, sacrificing His little bursts of beauty to tell me something truly profound. Or maybe - and this is the idea I've been playing with this migration, maybe - I'm following my heart, listening to a calling within myself, like a butterfly.
And then -smack- one meets its demise on my windshield, fluttering hopelessly, beating its wings just a few last times as it sails onto the hot pavement called Ware Rd. I close my eyes, no God, I don't want to see these little creatures die in pursuit of a yearning. No God - these butterflies are the ultimate romantics; they are the martyrs of their own tiny insect hearts.
Can we learn something from the butterfly? Or is it more like a warning?
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