A butterfly softly alighted next to me, then on me, on my arm with devastating impact. I was sitting leisurely in the back yard sipping iced tea. I never anticipated this gentle assault on my arm, immobilizing my hand. I intended on reaching for my drink, but she held me fast.

This double-winged prayer, Nature’s threatening love letter, echoed the same message as the ice in my glass.

I sipped from the democratic beverage, made sweet, just the way I like it.

I recline.

Butterfly, flutter by.

Sip.

I ruminate: Waiting is a spiritual practice. I didn’t want to interrupt her music. Her wings of sheet music are to be quietly respected, knowing especially that they will soon flutter away, carrying even the great composer in its talons.

There is music on the wind.

If only to be a Hindu; a protestant Hindu, monotheist, kathenotheist, and nothing at all. To know all theology with amnesia, towel in hand at your feet. I flutter by.

 

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