Letters From The Barn
The Ugly Truth About Butterflies
I know you like butterflies, we all do. But, unfortunately though they are tiny, brilliant birds who waft in and out of the sunlight playing amongst the wild flowers, they do something quite unlady like. But, that is for another moment. First I must tell you about where I am lucky enough to live.
I dwell beside a creek. My property is overgrown with wild strawberries and blackberries. There are untold numbers of wildflowers. The oregano grows like a weed through the yard and the trees almost bust through the sky. The clover vies with the wild grasses, all of whom attempt to take over the asparagus bed. The tiny little yellow wildflowers strive to impress the dandelions that grow taller than my dog.
Amongst all this beauty, I walk out each morning. Ah, the start of a new day. Sip my tea. Or coffee, if I'm needing a pick me up. What a beautiful day. Oh, my, look at those adorable butterflies. Why, there's a group of them. Yellow and black amongst the green grass, above them the blue sky. What a blissful day to be alive.
All my problems vanish. I forgive everyone who has ever harmed me and a few who only considered it. I will never again take the Lord's name in vain. I will leave all pennies in the parking lot for small children to pick up and add to their piggy banks. My life is so full of virtue and joy, my shoulders relax and I breathe in the beautiful morning air.
I think I'll just quietly walk closer to peek at them and see what they're up to. How adorable. They all look huddled together. What sweet treat have they found there in the grass? Some fruit fallen from a bush? An especially beautiful wildflower to sip nectar from? Maybe they're sunbathing in a puddle from the pleasant summer shower.
No, these glorious creatures of God have discovered that each day my neighbor's dog will make his round and deposit a flavorful feast primed for their dining pleasure a few feet from the woodshed. Within moments of his departure, they waft down from heaven, a mere ten feet from a quaint wooden bridge and a babbling brook, amid wildflowers almost taller than they can fly. To feast. Like it's the Last Supper.
I may be adding a wee bit of the Irish to my morning coffee tomorrow. I might need it.
Meriwether O'Connor is a columnist and short story writer. She works one on one with folks trying to get their writing where they would like it to be. Please contact her through this ungodly contraption called the internet if you'd like your own writing to be quicker and less painful. She'll sit down with you weekly over tea, the telephone or the godforsaken email and surprise you with how much a small chat can help you when you need it most. firstname.lastname@example.org.