But we share one thing in common: we both believe in animism.
FABLE OF THE MAN WHO FOUND THE MYSTERY
As a child he owned
a toy car and a ball of string
and not much else.
So by the time he became an adult
he felt he needed
many many things.
And so he worked hard
and felt pretty pleased
when he got all the stuff he wanted.
And yet
all that stuff didn’t seem to be enough.
He began to wonder
if he should now do
as others have sometimes done
after filling their lives with stuff: seek enlightenment.
“Should I chuck all that stuff
and go on a spiritual quest?”
he asked a hip woman
with wise lines across her face.
She told him: sit still and go on a journey within—
go deep within
until you feel the mystery
then rise up and go back out
and feel that same mystery all around you.
That unseen unknown ingredient
pervades everything—
everything—
even the air we breathe.
Our hero then did as told
and soon discovered the ineffable mystery
within and without—
a truth he now experiences
every day
because every day
he goes within
then goes back out
sensing the mystery again.
He now feels he’s found
what was missing before.
And the stuff he’s got
no longer seems so empty:
because he now feels the mystery
in all that stuff. In fact
he feels the mystery
in all the stuff of this world.
And so he now believes
all that stuff has spirit
including the stuff of trees
and mountains and fields and streams—
including the stuff called animals
and among the animals
the stuff called human beings.
Following this belief
the rich guy has now become a rich man.
Butterflies may seem to be on a frolic, but the truth is: they’re working their butts off the whole time.
THE INVISIBLE BUTTERFLY
This morning, when I saw the child
running in the sun—
her arms outstretched
her feet in too much of a rush—
I wrote:
Though she seems to be following
an invisible butterfly
the truth is:
she’s driven by a butterfly within.
I imagined that girl moving into adulthood
years from now—
still racing erratically through the tall grass
as if ruled by a mindless whimsy.
Those who watch her then
will wonder what she’s after
but her answers will only be evasions
because she’ll be as confounded as they are.
All she’ll know is:
her life seems to be captive
to a mysterious force
that destroys practical plans.
She’ll flitter and flutter here and there—
perhaps resting for a brief while
in a cool field smelling of honeydew melon.
Or perhaps she’ll pause for a season
on the shore of a brown lake
smelling of oil.
Though she will find satisfaction
in some of those places
in time, her peace will become
stagnation.
And then that drive will begin to stir deep within.
And the message will be: “move on”.
Sometimes she’ll try to ignore the instruction
but eventually she will learn:
she must obey an inborn aspiration
stronger than her conscious will.
Thinking about that child
and the woman she’d become
I again felt those wings rustling within.
So I whispered “bless you”
and moved on
led by my own inner butterfly.
After years of following
I can hear it now
as it silently says: so much to be done
in so many places
before you can rest.
But I don’t bother to ask
“What’s it all for?”
because by now I know
the invisible butterfly
will not answer.