Watching The Sun Fly

[Let us divert our attention for a moment from politics, theology, evil. Let us saunter over and take a look at the really deep things of life. We shall leave the shallow stuff for the weekdays, the weak days. But the weekends? They were made for humanity. Consider it all a Sabbath rest. And later today look for Contratimes Writing Tip #2. I promise: it's a dandy! Then for tomorrow I think we shall enjoy a reflection on one of the most amazing photographs ever made. Peace. BG]

The other day, while searching the local greenhouse for plants for my rather sparse garden, I noticed a yellow swallowtail bumping futilely against the glass, all in a vain effort to escape. After several tentative tries, I managed to cup the lovely butterfly in my hand. In order to keep it from either escaping my grip or getting hurt, I cupped both hands together, hoping that the larger hollow would provide safe passage for the little bit of loveliness within. After a quick exit out into the open air, I opened my hands slightly, allowing air and brilliant sunlight to seep into the hallowed hall between my palms. The butterfly's feet tickled my palms and fingers; its antennae made their appearance, and I let the wondrous flying leaf go. But instead of travelling north or south, or towards the romantic west or the mysterious east, the butterfly ascended straight overhead, paddling the air toward the deepest part of the great blue ocean above. It lifted off with such intent into the dazzling sky that it appeared more like a gem sinking into the sea, swirling down along invisible currents, flashing sunlight back into my eyes until it was too deep to ever be seen again.

I thought of the passage of that little butterfly, its journey from hard and brutal light, a light that held it back from its pursuits, its goals. It had twitched and fluttered and smacked against a stiff transparency, only to be suddenly swallowed, tail and all, by a moist darkness. How long was it in the belly of my hands, three days, or three minutes? Was this its death, this opaque paralysis, this coffin of callouses and scars? And then! What light! What passage from darkness to brilliant blue and streaking yellow and gold!

Did the swallowtail feel as if it had passed through to life's other side? Or did it merely feel like it had travelled through time, carried through warps of compressed time in a machine made of hot, pulsing skin? Did it find itself awash in a primeval innocence, baptized by the sun and sky above an ever-receding earth?

One shall never know. But I pray that it is off like Jonah spat from the whale, flying skyward, or down into the abyss, to warn, to proclaim, to bring tidings of glad things. Perhaps the little butterfly is even now a legend, a hero, a king among its kin. Perhaps it is hailed as the bearer of good news, telling a tale of being swallowed, and yet raised one more time.

May hope have its way.

Peace and mirth.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

[Photo: Male Baltimore Oriole perching to feed on orange. Image taken with a Canon EOS 3, with Canon EF 80-200/2.8 L lens at 1/500 f.6.7. Tripod. A radio-controlled shutter release was used to capture this image on Kodak E100 film. Scanned using a Minolta Dimage Elite 5400 scanner.]