We gave my nephew a butterfly kit for his fifth birthday.  It’s a bittersweet present.  You watch your tiny larvae hatch, grow into caterpillars, go through a miraculous transformation, take their first flight, and then you have a choice.  Do you let them fly and be free, or do you keep them in their cage, have them longer and ultimately watch them die?

When they were young, my daughters decided to keep their butterflies, and feel the heartache of each life ending. My nephew let all but one be free.  And then deeply experienced the pain from his decision.

These little creatures have very little time on this earth: some species live a week or two; some a year if they are lucky to survive the increasingly difficult migration. It’s a poignant decision for a child to make, knowing that free butterflies live longer than captured ones.  

Don’t we all?  Yes, we should live as freely as we can.  We need to feel the fleeting nature of our own lives; not to despair, but to generate the courage to leave our cage and fly.

I recently attended a writer’s workshop, and was given the prompt:  If I let my life happen . . .

I couldn’t help but think of butterflies.
 
If I Let My Life Happen . . .
There is a butterfly on my shoulder.  Its wings open and close in my ear.  I don’t dare move. Yet, it’s not taking flight. It stays with me up and down the stairs. Not feeling captured or busy but entertained by my running.

Sunshine is a window away.  It knows its direction but won’t go without me. So he is patient.  And I hurriedly finish my work, shortening my list of to do’s enough to fly along.

We touch each piece of God’s beauty that offers nectar.  Feeling into the currents of warm air that take me higher.  No guide needed. Density below, warmth on my wings, and gratitude in my heart.  I take flight before life is over.  It’s fleeting but not too short. No sorrows. No words. No song. No need to despair.

The dust of color from my wings has worn off from full-contact living.  My antennas are slowly losing sensation.  My mouth is dry but smiling.  My flight is sporadic.  I fall away.  

I fall.  
I fly.  
Is there a difference?
Direction is subjective.
I have spread my wings.
My life is whole. 
​

It happened.  My 12 year old daughter and I were standing at the bathroom mirror together getting ready for the day and I saw it for the first time.

“Eva, I think you are taller than I am!”  I knew it was coming, but it still took me by surprise.

As well did her response, “Yes Mama.  I’ve known for about a month, but didn’t want to tell you.”

A sweet moment of wrestling with growing up, shifting relationships and vantage points. The momentum of life.

I had to wonder what about me invited this milestone to be tucked away. Maybe my wet eyes every time we watch home videos or my promise to be able to always pick her up.  Surely I have many subtle actions trying to keep her little.  

Then I started thinking about my relationship with myself. I’ve done my own growing this past year and haven’t claimed it.  I’ve said yes, when I naturally would have said no.  I’ve taken some risks. I’ve asked for help.

When we follow the traditional exercise of forward goal setting, we miss an opportunity to look in the mirror and see the growth before our eyes.

I just came back from an amazing weekend with the poet David Whyte.  He so wisely shared, “Solid ground is the meeting between what you think is you and isn’t you . . . A narrow definition of self gives us a narrow place to stand.”  

How can you expand the ground of Self you stand on?  Take a look at how you’ve grown.  Give yourself more than a minute. Maybe light a candle, pull up a calendar to review the months of your journey, and honor your own momentum. What would you like to claim?  Send me an email !  I would love to stand next to you on your solid ground, gaze at your beautiful reflection and smile, “Yes, you ARE taller.”

My daughter just ran for her school’s student council.  It was right on the tails of our country’s election day and she was keenly in tune with the intense emotions that came with winning and losing.

At Jefferson Elementary School, Aria was one of a handful of ten-year-olds who found the courage to try.  They wrote their speeches and practiced during lunch recess for weeks. They put up their handmade posters with their campaign managers.  They spoke in front of the entire school, articulating why they were the best one for the job and promising more ice cream days. 

And then the ballots were cast.  Winning and losing became a real and raw life lesson. 

Watching each child approach the stage was a tender example of the bravery of trying. The importance of stepping up to life’s podium when we have something to share with the world.  The gift we receive ~ regardless of the outcome ~ knowing the strength in ourselves.

I wrote this prayer for my daughter while waiting for the results.  I think I’ll keep it handy.

When We Try

Thank you for guiding me to my most bright and fullest self.

Thank you for sending me the whispers that I am strong enough to try.

Thank you for all that I have learned about myself from trying: 
that I am brave, that I am smart and creative, that I know myself best.

Help others, who want to be brave enough to try, to find this part of themselves too.

Thank you for all the support I felt from others.

Thank you for helping me find the part inside that I can count on
when I feel scared, nervous, shy or disappointed.

Help me to remember that loss and disappointment are a part of life,
and that I don’t need to fear it.  I can walk through it, talk through it,
feel through it, be in it.  

Please continue to guide me towards the ways I can bring my gifts into the world
and to trust myself every step of the way.

Thank you for growing my roots deeper into the earth and my limbs higher towards the sky. 
As I am now a stronger, more beautiful blossoming person from it.