The Touch of a Butterfly

I didn't expect to feel the way I felt when the butterfly landed on my finger.  I hardly felt her physical presence at all, as if the whisper of a breeze had skimmed the surface of my skin, leaving as quickly as it arrived. She was one of hundreds reveling in the brilliant colors and abundant sweetness of the butterfly pavilion, a world as magical as any that Willie Wonka could have created, every inch planned to delight, excite and nourish its guests.  Purple petunias, coral begonias, yellow daisies, lilac verbena, orange lantana, lush leaves in shimmering  shades from mint to olive to emerald, cobalt blue platters lined with orange slices, cherry red bowls overflowing with shimmering glass pebbles of aquamarine coolness.  A haven, a home where they could enjoy their short lives. 


The Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix was not the birthplace of the butterflies. They made the long trip from Florida to Arizona via UPS when they were too young to know which way was up.  Brian, the butterfly expert, explained that new shipments would arrive throughout the pavilion’s March 5-May 8 opening, with young ones replacing the dying.  “The life span of an average adult butterfly is 2-3 weeks,” he said.  “Some monarchs can live up to 6 months, but the ‘garden varieties’ are here and gone pretty quickly.”  I had no idea.  All the more reason to celebrate their presence. 


My friend, Margie, and I rendezvoused in Phoenix over the past weekend, each coming from a state whose abbreviation is often confused with the state we were visiting:  AK – Alaska, AR- Arkansas, and AZ – Arizona.  Seeing the butterflies was one of those serendipitous events, one of life’s unexpected invitations, which requires a quick answer.  “For an extra $3.50, you can visit the Butterfly Pavilion,” the cashier said.  "Want a ticket?”  I hesitated; not sure why, but  Margie didn’t.  “Sure, let’s do it!” she answered with enthusiasm.   Friends, thankfully, lead us towards possibilities.

Within the tent-like structure, topped with sky-blue canvas, and walled in by white criss-crossed netting that resembled fishnet stockings, at least 10 varieties of butterflies flew, rested, ate, and greeted their visitors.  I enviously observed a man with salt and pepper hair, quietly reading his “Butterfly Identification Guide,” as a Zebra Longwing perched on his head; a woman with a bright  fushia blouse, silently snapping pictures, as a Orange-barred Giant Sulfur rested on her shoulder. 

Oh, to have a butterfly visit me! What should I do?  The answer became obvious as I sat motionless for a picture. . . nothing.

When I settled my own flitting body quietly on a rock, it happened. 
                                                                    
One landed on my back,

                                          
                                        

and the sleeve of my lime sweater, perhaps mistaking me for foliage
                                                     

Then, there she was, on the tip of my left forefinger -- the daintiest, most dazzling yellow butterfly imaginable.  I suddenly felt like a giant holding a piece of fine china, responsible for this delicate creature who was trusting me with her safety, her innocence.  Her soft touch reminded me of the fragility of childhood, of the small hands of our grandchildren, Luke, Nate, Ruby and Anna, reaching up for my hands, trusting that I will respond with gentleness, tenderness, love.  I was humbled.

She was gone in an instant, my outstretched hand grateful for her visit ~ her lasting touch of goodness.      

                                                                                                              

It's All About Balance ("corny," but true)

The "Kream Kastle Drive Inn," one of those fast food places along the side of the road which I usually pass by without a second glance, called to me. . rather impolitely, I might add, like someone chewing a mouthful of french fries and talking at the same time.

"Stop!" it shouted.  "Have a milk shake, banana split, a chili pie loaded with cheese and onions."  I ignored it, tilted my nose in the air at the mere suggestion that I would make such unhealthy food choices and accelerated, quickly putting distance between myself and what I secretly craved.  With places to go and people to see, I drove on along Highway 70 between Little Rock and Hot Springs, knowing that in the afternoon, I would be retracing my steps, passing by the same spot, wondering if I could avoid the temptation twice in one day.

With the smell of deep-fat fried onion rings, corn fritters and tater tots chasing me down the road, I tried to remember the last time I had given into my craving, allowed myself the pleasure of one of my favorite food indulgences. Following the example of our adult children and their spouses, I have slowly evolved into a healthier eater, even buying more organic products and joining a co-op for locally grown and humanely produced meats, dairy items, fruits and vegetables.  When eating at a restaurant, I skim the menu to find the healthy options - salads, grilled chicken or salmon, fruit cups, lighter portions - glancing past the mashed potatoes, fried okra, and chicken-fried steak as if they didn't exist, blank spaces rather than real choices.

I ask you, "Where's the fun in that?"

Maybe that's why Kream Kastle kept circling through my thoughts all day. Could it be time to tip the scales towards a balance between healthy and the occasional not-so-healthy, between sensible and frivolous, between planned and spontaneous?  Mmmm. . . these scales seem to be measuring more than food.

The authenticity of this no-fills place appealed to my senses, as well.  No pretense.  No energy spent in trying to be something it wasn't. "This is who I am.  Take it or leave it," its menu boasted with its double bacon cheeseburgers, foot long hot dogs and hot fudge sundaes.  "If you're looking for high-class with all that healthy fruit and lettuce glitz, keep rollin' down the road to McDonald's," this establishment touted, oozing with confidence as plentiful as its ketchup bottles.

With the Kream Kastle's OP N sign (the E must have been on vacation) inviting me into its parking lot that afternoon,  I made my decision.  The menu was displayed in red plastic letters above the "Place Your Order" window.  I searched for the one item that I could already taste, in all its greasy goodness, topped with mustard -- a corn dog!  Accompanied by, what else? A creamy, sweet chocolate shake!

    

 YUM. I felt liberated!       

     

Gathering and Giving Away

Boxes keep appearing on our front porch. Brown cardboard ones, plain except for the sweeping Amazon.com "smile" across the side, and white ones bordered with bold black letters announcing a CRATE and BARREL delivery.  None are even addressed to me.

The names on the shipping labels read Andrew Lewis and Katherine Alexander Lewis, the newlyweds.  Packed inside are gifts from their wedding registries, pots and pans, bowls and platters, skillets, griddles, cookbooks, flatware, mixer, knives, cutting board, grater, measuring cups. . . all for their new kitchen, and, coincidentally, all items that my mother is giving away as she downsizes from house to apartment.

For the past month I've often felt like the umpire in a tennis match, head turning back and forth from our daughter and her new husband to my mother.  Katherine and Andy are unpacking boxes, filling their home, adding to their first few belongings.  My mother is packing boxes, emptying her home, taking away from a lifetime of belongings.  Straddling the net on my imaginary court, I find myself in the middle of the extremes, in "middle age" (a term that strangely sounds more old than middle) observing and pondering stages of life, wondering the value of "things."

Searching for insight, my thoughts return to my grandparents' house after Pop died and Grandma was leaving their home for an apartment.  Growing up in the same town with them, I felt as much at home in their house as my own.  It was packed from attic to garage with accumulated stuff from over 50 years of marriage, six children, and a passel of grandchildren.  Walking through the rooms, looking at the familiar furniture, dishes, knick knacks, pictures, personal possessions, I knew that I wanted to take something as a remembrance.  But out of a houseful of belongings, what held personal meaning for me?  Could "things" capture a memory, trigger an emotion, help me hold onto a piece of these two people whom I dearly loved?

Uncertain, I selected four.

*the Scrabble game that Grandma taught me how to play, the one we played on Saturday nights at the old cardboard table in the living room

*the dominoes that Pop taught me how to play, the ones whose box was so dilapidated that he taped and re-taped it with black electrician's tape until it fell apart




*Pop's rocking chair, where he sat watching his favorite Yankees play on t.v., as I brushed and styled his hair

*Grandma's rocking chair, where she sat quietly rocking on the screened-in front porch, as I swung beside her in the porch swing, singing

Thirty years later, these possessions still have the power to connect me to my grandparents, the experiences and love we shared.  A value only I could assign, only I could treasure.

Gathering,

Giving away,

and. . .   

Keeping.

As my head turns toward my mother, sitting among a room of stacked papers, family pictures, multicolored quilts and glittering glass bowls, I wonder how she will decide.  What will be worthy of her keeping?

Perfect Yellowness

Poetry often seems the closet form of writing to beauty.  I welcome the first daffodil of 2011 to our yard with a poem. May my friends in Russia, Alaska, Connecticut, and other locations were daffodils are still a hope upon the horizon, enjoy this lovely face of spring.

The First Daffodil of the Season

You have no need

to announce,

“I’m here, the first,

take notice!”

No need to parade

your dainty pedaled bonnet

your gently ruffled neckline

your shapely tender body,

rooted firmly to its

Source.

You awake in solitude,

grateful for the moment only,

unaware of the world’s

Expectations

Anticipations

Validations

heaped upon your head as a

harbinger of its renewal.

Catching sight of you in

my morning garden

jolts a dormant joy

excites my feet to dance

sends me rushing to your side

 to seek your calm assurance,

 to touch the cheek 

of

Perfect Yellowness.

© Twylla Alexander 2011