“Initially wishing you a “HAPPY NEW YEAR” and may brings you lots of hoy and love toward your
loved ones…Not this year, till end of this world. Also genuine peace to suffering world.” — Lhatpa, a Tibetan Buddhist nun
Till end of this world…the glass-winged butterfly in these pictures has an adult life span of 6-12 weeks. The end of the world rushes toward each butterfly. Each, without intention, makes beauty.
We only imagine we know how long we have. But, I repeat myself. Here is the story of a wo/man, of someone you know or don’t know, who has just seen a transparent butterfly and is compelled to write…
Your turn. I look forward to your words.
And, here is Victoria Enders on what we do (and a fake Spring) :
I’m old. I’ve finished working. I pick up when I feel like it. I cook when I feel like it. I iron my shirts once a year. I water the plants enough to keep them alive, but I can’t work up enough energy to feed them. They don’t miaow. I get up late after listening to my favorite Podcasts that reinforce my political disgust while working on the puzzle of the day. Then I cuddle with my miracle cat for his two-phase treatment: first, fifteen minutes of stroking and “Chinny-chin-chin,” then ten minutes of the his wrapped up “Happy Feet” routine. When he’s done and has forgotten me, I say I’m satisfied. I’m happy.
Then, lots to keep me busy: appointments, the telephone, house repairs, the dentist, and the day rolls on in its mellow cocoon. There might be a family flair up–hackles to soothe, emails to send, wounded cousins to hear out—but, in general, the smooth river of days flows by quietly, almost imperceptibly.
Yet, at one point there might be an interview on NPR—a writer talks about being alive, truly alive, the year of her husband’s death. Or an idea flashes unbeckoned into my mind about a beginning sentence, an opening. At another point, a book haphazardly picked up at the library shows how well it can be done, how well it can be written. A quote from a celebrated author says, “If you aren’t trying to do something new with your book, it’s a waste of time.”
Then, the world shifts a little and there is the inkling, the possibility, and the fear of a true life not lived. With it comes the occasional growing comprehension of the nature of time.
I love false spring.
I love the sun, the blue sky, the lengthening day.
So what if it’s a fake?
It feels the same, and it’s a blessed break.
My tissues come alive, even my tendons stretch out a little.
I think I sense a whiff of ambition.
I think the juices are headed back up the organism.
Entropy has been checked.
Temporary, maybe. Who cares?
I love false spring.