intro to 'to she:'

Not sure if there is a more ‘token’ metaphor, than that of the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly; the transformation of one ‘creature’ into another; and let’s be honest, my science is bad, at best, however, I did read up on a child’s butterfly website, so I suppose that makes me qualified to dole out facts like Bill Nye or something. 

You hear it often, and my intention is not to emphasize or even highlight what happens within that cycle of life and transformation, however, I do hope to walk passed with thoughts, like I did this butterfly's dead body being eaten by ants; how moving, the imagery of that transformation and rebirth is, within the larger narrative of the butterfly’s very short lifespan. 

A 3rd grade field trip to Butterfly World taught me that an average butterfly lives about 12 days, and from my new favorite website, I learned that this number can be greater or less, but regardless, I remember thinking even then, that is a short span of time. Seems somewhat sad, that something so magnificent as metamorphosis, could be so shadowed with a near flash of an existence, and yet we very seldom hear much of the butterfly’s life, other than that sole event of newness into butterfly, never the short-lived, or otherwise tragic imagery of something so inspiring and beautiful, ceasing to be. 

And i want to capture that reality of that thinking, pack it into a rucksack, and travel the world; because truth is, I think most of us are cocooned in life’s possible failures, the what ifs, the potential dangers, potential tragedies; and what is the butterfly doing; he’s living, with nothing more than two weeks ahead of him, and so he always inspires, he is always called beautiful, he will always be the centerpiece for allegories and metaphors, and rightfully so. 

I want to live, so free of fear, so full of love, so intentionally hopeful, so mindful of of what i’m chasing after, that when i miss the target the memory of what i’m aiming at is nothing but sonnets and daisies, that when i fall short the dirt on the other bank will have been disturbed, that when my skiff is found empty eyes will subsequently scale the waterfall, that when loneliness makes camp the sun will set over a volcano i’ve never seen before, and when oxygen, no longer expands and contracts within my lungs, we'll know without question, that i am at last, truly breathing.