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. 
​

When we feel lack of momentum, it can be unsettling.  It’s easy to start judging ourselves in times of uphill.  But there is also an invitation to understand our need for a constant sense of pushing forward.

Momentum is defined as “The force or speed of movement.”  Our achievement oriented, fast paced society is hooked on it.  Yet we can see that speed of movement doesn’t always bring momentum towards the changes we are seeking individually or collectively.

My family recently went skiing in Tahoe.  My youngest daughter was stretching herself to move past the bunny slope and stay with the group, when we came upon a man made ski jumping course with one launching ramp after another.  She watched her sister and others fly down it.  Determined yet scared, she decided to approach the first ramp.  

Slowly she started down the shoot and up the ramp only to stall out half way up and slide back down to a stop.  She then had to traverse around the jump to the other side and try again.  I watched her try over and over again, never making it, always sliding backwards to a stop. Her combined effort to stay in control and make it over the top brought tears of frustration and anger at the height of the ramp and her own fear that was getting in the way.

I’m a huge fan of baby steps. They are a comfortable and often strategic way to move forward in challenging times. After watching Aria I was reminded that baby steps can’t always get you up and over.  

I also saw that Aria was building momentum, even though to her it felt like dismal failure.   I was taken by her determination, as she approached a ramp for the eighth time.  Her trial and error, mixed with the growing energy of her emotions gave her the momentum to successfully tackle the last ramp with all her might.

Momentum requires letting go and pushing forward all at the same time.  The emotions that we typically feel when we are stuck: frustration, anger, agitation, regret; can be used to fuel momentum if we are aware of their energies and focused on channeling them.  

Staying on life’s bunny slopes might make us feel greater “speed of movement”, but preparing for leaps, including the pauses in between, is a force in itself.  You can fall down and get up over and over again.  You can even slide backwards in life and still be moving forward.  

How can you redefine momentum in your life right now? I'd love to know.

Blessings,
Amy      

ps. Having no photo of my daughter in action, I went to YouTube and found tons of footage of ski jumps gone bad. The one I included above is visceral inspiration for times when baby steps are not an option.

What makes you feel safe? 

A roof over your head?

A leader you trust?

Money in the bank?   A strong military?

Your faith?

A clean bill of health?

A stable job?

How about organic food . . .  a flu vaccine . . . seat belts . . . contraception  . . . a home security system . . .  not watching the news?

Living in America?

Feeling loved?

We all felt the intense uncertainty of this week as our Nation prepared to ride out Hurricane Sandy.  Its awful aftermath served to shift the fear many of us hold around the Presidential election to real matters of life, death, survival, and coming together in profound and necessary ways.

Ultimately, I think feeling safe is about knowing you are not alone.  

When all the scaffolding we create in life falls or blows or floats away, we are left with the one innate force that guided us from the moment we entered this world as infants.  It’s what stopped our tears.

Knowing you are not alone can take many forms.  You can find security in a family, a friendship, a pet, a partnership, a community.  You can find connection with a greater life force.  

Perhaps the most intimate and often the most fleeting sense of not being alone is finding that connection within your Self.   Can you feel safe within your Self?  How do you get there?  It can feel like searching for a light in the darkness.  But within your powerfully rooted center there is a space that is safe.  It can hold you. It knows you.  It can guide you and soothe you.  In that place, when you are able to be with yourself and trust … you are not alone.

In life things break.  Right now I have a broken toe, dishwasher again, a favorite bowl, a chipped friendship, and a little broken dream.

When something breaks it requires our attention.  I can tell you from experience, if you don’t stop and tend to it you will get a foot in a walking cast, piles of dirty dishes, glass splinters, a nagging conscience, and chronic malaise.   

No matter how aggravating, uncomfortable, or overwhelming it may be, the sooner we deal with what’s broken, the lighter we become.

Whether it requires patience for a slow heal, help from others, piecing it together or letting it go . . . doing the work is the important exercise.  

When material things break, we are immediately reminded of what really matters in life.  When we physically break, it’s a forced exercise in self care.  When parts of our lives feel broken, we are invited to find our most vulnerable and most strong selves.  All gifts in life.

What’s broken for you? Might it be life’s invitation to slow down, pay attention, and do the work?

May “Doing the Work” in your life be less about fixing and more about accepting imperfection, being comfortable with the uncomfortable, knowing when to let go, feeling your strength, healing with your heart, and lightening your load.

And while we work on ourselves, may we all continue to work together to heal our broken world.  It needs us.