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.