no we've got to fold
down to the floor, yes I know it's cold
but baby our hearts have gone
Ingrid Michaelson's "Once Was Love"
the butterfly. life's fragility epitomized in that singular being. the butterfly flies near you and you hold out your hand. it flutters down into your palm. but what then? how do you keep hold of something so precious, so beautiful? do you curl your fingers around it, caging it in? the butterfly will struggle to free itself from your grasp. the tighter you hold, the more fervent it beats its wings in an effort to escape. in fact, it will struggle so much that eventually the powder on its wings will rub off. the butterfly will become incapacitated. it will struggle itself to death. maybe not dead, dead. but essentially the same. useless. dead to the world. what point is there to a life without flight? survival impossible. forever dependent on the captor. on you. no, rather, it is in offering freedom that you even have a chance of holding onto the butterfly. when holding it, you keep your hands flat, palms up and open. you offer the butterfly the chance to leave at will. and in recognizing the spirit within that beautiful creature, that need for freedom, you understand the butterfly fully. when your hand is open, not trapping, the butterfly stays with you. it's that simple. the tighter you hold to something you love against its will, the more you lose it. you end up crushing it. but if you truly love it, you'll give it the freedom it needs, even if there's a chance you'll have to love it from afar.
