by Howard Hain
.
“In the same way, everyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.”
—Luke 14:33
.
Butterflies fly.
They sail beautifully and somewhat clumsily at the same time.
It’s as if even their own weight is almost too much to carry.
Hard to imagine them bringing anything else along for the ride.
Paper-thin wings—watercolored and air-dried—the rain keeps them tucked away, hidden, out of sight.
Even little drops of morning dew keep them from flight.
But the hour will come.
Just wait and see.
Still. Quiet. Like an upright leaf.
They position their wings just right.
The sun to burn away all unwanted drops.
———
Have you dew-covered wings?
Does the dew of life weigh you down?
Do you want what’s unwanted to be burned away?
Have you tried pointing your wings toward the sun?
Or do you really not want to float above?
.
“You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free.”
—Galatians 5:13
.
.
The Victor's Place 
Der Fr. Victor- Many years ago Ted brought me a caterpillar that he found on
one of the dill plants in our vegetable garden. It was chartreuse green with
yellow and black markings running down its back, and about the size of my
pinky finger. I had read about the life cycle of butterflies, but really didn’t know much about them. In spite of that, I went down cellar and got a big
plastic pretzel jar that I had been saving for “something, someday.” It turned out to be perfect for “my” caterpillar. I picked some dill leaves and put them in the jar. I watched as the butterfly ate some, but then it began to try to climb up the side of the jar and I remembered that butterflies climb upward,
so I got a twig to fit the jar and more dill on tall stems. They were just what the butterfly needed. It was already a good size so a couple of days later it began to spin its chrysalis and soon it was cocooned inside. It was August, so it didn’t emerge until the following April after wintering over in the jar on a shelf in the cellar. After reading Howard’s reflection on butterflies today, I’d like to share this poem. Peace, Gloria
Transformation
(Reflection on April 29, 1999)
I hold in my hand the warming body
of a black swallowtail butterfly
newly emerged from its chrysalis,
coming slowly to life
after its long winter sleep.
It climbs onto my fingers and clings to them,
attracted to the faint sweet scent
of dish washing detergent on my hands,
slowly fanning its wings to dry them.
I feel blessed that it doesn’t want to leave
but it needs to rest through the night,
so I gently place it on a bright blossom
on the azalea bush.
I keep watch until I go to bed.
The next morning just after sunrise,
I watch it spread its wings and soar upward,
as newborn butterflies always do.
Gloria Ziemienski
August 8, 2009
LikeLike