I was with my daughter on her birthday. We hiked among mile-high Giant Redwoods, dotted with thousands of creamy white Dogwood blossoms. It was an unseasonably hot May Day, and I was in a joyful mood with so much family love and forest beauty surrounding me. Maybe it was the thin air, but when...
... I open the sliding door of our van, a flash of color catches my eye on the gray pavement. Putting nose to ground, I observe that this butterfly has completed its life cycle and left its perfect, physical form behind.
Things are always changing in the Mom Dream. Generations continue and I recognize the strengths and weaknesses of my ancestors. Honor is laced with disdain, and love is too often emotionally entangled with hate. Gathering this precious butterfly shell, I feel like a collector. Needing no net, the butterfly comes to me in real or imagined realities.
Am I the butterfly?
Or, is it merely a wish -- the product of my hyperactive imagination and child-like sensibilities. The butterfly is in my palm again, and this time it will stay in my heart.
"Happiness is like a butterfly.
The more you chase it, the more it will elude you.
But if you turn you attention to other things,
it comes softly and sits on your shoulder." *
Or, in the palm of my hand. We are all dreaming.