by Laura Crum
My
life is up and down right now. Ever since my husband died I have struggled so
much. But I wouldn’t expect it to be different. I have moments where I feel him
guiding and protecting and just being a companion to me, and I am comforted. I
have moments where I realize that I am getting everything done and I feel
stronger. Our son, our animals, our garden, and our little life here on our
property are being taken care of just as Andy would want. But sometimes I miss his physical
presence so much that I can hardly bear the pain. I imagine it is the same for
all those who have lost much-loved others to death.
The
other day I had one of those very sad moments. I literally cried out to Andy
for help. And then, as I tend to do, I went outside and began doing something
“useful.” I pulled some old, aphid-covered kale out of the veggie garden and
fed it to the chickens, in preparation for planting new seedlings. While I
worked there, a butterfly came and landed right next to me. It was a beautiful black
and orange butterfly (I think a Red Admiral, but I am no expert on
butterflies), and it was a foot from my hand. I stared at it, unable to resist
a smile, feeling sure it had been sent as a messenger by Andy (and yes, this is
the sort of fanciful thinking that is automatic to me now—seeing magic in the
most every day things). I moved to another part of the garden, and again the
butterfly lit on the ground very close to me. I watched it for a minute and
then it flew up the hill toward Andy’s greenhouse.
When
I was done in the garden I went to the greenhouse to water the plants. Only to
find what seemed to be the same butterfly trapped inside, fluttering against
the glass, trying to escape. I can only assume my friend from the garden had
flown in the open greenhouse door. I did my best to shoo him back out the door,
but the butterfly resisted my efforts, determined to fly out through what
appeared to him to be openings, which were in fact unyielding glass. I had to
be very gentle in my efforts to coax him toward the doorway for fear of
damaging his fragile self. Every time I had almost got him to freedom, by
waving my hands…etc, he would fly back towards a pane of glass—away from the
open doorway.
I
was almost crying with frustration, saying out loud, “Please let me help you.
Please let me save you. Please.”
And
finally I was able to encourage the butterfly out the open door and it flew
away into the spring afternoon, free at last.
I
felt so relieved, and I had the momentary thought that I had “saved” Andy. And
then suddenly a very powerful thought came rushing in and I stopped dead in my
tracks. What if it was the other way around?
What
if I am the butterfly and Andy is “me?” What if I am spending my life, like
most humans, moving toward what appear to me to be logical ways to find
happiness and freedom, but which are in fact completely unworkable dead
ends—unyielding panes of glass. They look like you can go that way—but you
actually can’t. It will never work. I am like the butterfly—I can’t see where the
way to true freedom lies. Like all of us who are still in our human bodies.
And
perhaps Andy is now “me,” someone who can see the big picture and is trying as
hard as he can to guide the butterfly (the still-human me) toward the only
doorway to freedom. He can’t push me too hard or he will damage my fragile
self—remove my ability to choose. He can only encourage me as much as he can in
subtle ways. But he is trying so hard to help me. He is begging me to let him
help me. He wants me to find happiness and freedom, and he knows the way.
As
a butterfly, I can’t perceive him as anything other than a big force, like an
especially animated tree in the wind. He doesn’t seem like a visible “being” to
me. I would only recognize another butterfly (read human being) as a proper
being. But in fact he is very much a being, one who sees the big picture much
more clearly than I do, and is trying to help me—and CAN help me, much more
than another butterfly could. I just have to respond to his guidance.
This
concept hit me so hard I had to stop what I was doing and go lie for awhile in
the hammock that hangs in a big oak tree at the top of our property, and think
it over. The hammock is a place that is special to Andy—not only did he lie
there in life, but he came to me in a dream and invited me to lie in the
hammock with him. So now when I really need to feel our connection, I often go
lie in the hammock.
Lying
there, looking up at the oak tree branches against the sky, I thought about the
notion that I was the butterfly, and that Andy’s presence as he tries to guide
me toward freedom and happiness might appear to me as some arbitrary happenings
that push me one way or another, or a random force, like wind moving a tree.
And as I had this thought, a wind sprang up and began to blow. It blew like
crazy for about five minutes, rocking the branch that held the hammock,
scattering leaves on me, ruffling my hair. I lay in the swaying hammock, as
leaves fluttered down like kisses, somewhat amazed. And as quickly as it sprang
up, the wind died away completely.
When
I finally got up and walked back down the hill, I had one simple thought. “Let
me be open to this guidance.”
So,
anyway, I’m telling this story not to convince anyone of anything. My tendency
to find magical guidance in everyday events may be nothing more than my
imagination desperately trying to find a “story” to comfort my sense of pain
and loss. But I really don’t care if this is so. I’m hoping that perhaps a few
others out there (especially those who have lost someone they very much loved)
may find that these thoughts resonate for them and perhaps will draw some
inspiration for their own lives.
And I would love to hear your own magical stories.
