Monday, May 21, 2007

Somewhere . . . a butterfly flapped its wings . . .

I suppose when the air became still enough (in hindsight it was only the eye of the storm) for the initial conditions to shift, ever so slightly, at the gentle flapping of the butterfly’s wings . . . the tempest emerged . . . uprooting my perennials, tearing at my shingles, flooding my basement . . . finding me with only one foot on the ground.

As the tempest created chaos in my life - the chaos created a new life in me.

Butterflies are bringers of change - they symbolize metamorphosis, transformation – it’s no wonder that they have such power beneath their fragile wings to turn the tides inward.

Now, after being flooded and nearly drowned – a forceful baptism into the sacred rites of all that is beyond the morning cup of coffee, the daily devotion to the hour hand, the tedious slow drive home, the forgetfulness of living – I understand the importance of air, I appreciate every breath, I have come to know that oxygen is free . . . as all REAL things are.

Did I nearly die – was this a near death experience . . . oh yes! I was as close to death as the salesmen can get before rigor mortis foils resurrection. I was one of the lucky bastards. I was asked to leave Dracula’s cave (by Dracula himself) because (this is where the curse becomes a blessing) my anemic blood type . . . and of course my wooden cross and pounds of garlic hidden under my cloak didn’t help things. I was deemed a trader of the cult, stripped of my name, cast out. Left almost soulless. Almost.

I was awakened by the high-pitched sound of the monitor flat lining. As I pushed the snooze button, I realized, that although this all felt so real, it was only a bad dream during another lazy nap . . . one that I cannot afford to take again and lose more time by closing my eyes . . . even if (especially if) I don’t want to see what is in front of me.

Where once a zombie tolerated a poorly written script (the endings are always so predictable) . . . a women leaves the stage without so much as a bow . . . and a butterfly’s job is done.