“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”
Rabindranath Tagore

At the beginning, there was a butterfly.

Taken from a picture of one of the many Tiger swallowtail that frequented the environs of the lake, the beach, and the summer flowers that surrounded it.

Randomly flipping through the archives today, at old posts, and posts reminiscing about old posts, I feel compelled to point out I have once again brought back the symbol of the butterfly.

Yet this time, this image has been morphed via various graphic apps, to become the icon you see in my Logo. That butterfly though started out as a photograph from that lakeside Cottage Garden.

 

The reason for the use of the butterfly for this blog, was meant to explore the many aspects associated with the butterfly; such as transformation, change, growth, but also as it is the symbol of Palliative Care (end of life care). At some point though, I struggled with the symbolism. It seemed to have this suggestion of cutesy-pie that rankled me alittle, so I eventually dropped it. Returning on occasion, but not for any length of time.
Lately though, as things have changed, I found myself once again returning to the symbolism of that butterfly. That transformation from the caterpillar, to the beautiful winged one who is enamored with the flowers, appeals to me.

I still think there is a certain cutesy  nature to it, but I’ve come to terms, as it suits my current mood. I see the whimsy now, and embrace that aspect.

I do also want to return to,  in some fashion, the avenues and pathways out of grief. I’ve taken this road so many times. I am now also on the hunt for happiness, and searching for things to calm the ever seeking soul. Through maybe knowledge, or insights of yore, perhaps wisps of angel threads wrapped around memories, but all of it will be directly from inside of me. With little restraint, and I shall write of what ever tis upon my mind. Lines of poetry, prose, stories of this or that, a slice of my ever adventurous life, photo essays perhaps, fab Fridays, and not so fab ones. All of that, and whatever.

Always butterfly though, come forth and flutter about. Tasting the nectar’s of the wild, and with a beauty and strength, representative of that which we will all become.