Once upon a time, when I was a child lying on the grass on a clear summer day, I looked up to find this beautiful brilliant blue butterfly as it landed on my hand. And I just sat there, entranced, lost in the depths of the vivid colors and intricate patterns engraved on its wings, until before I knew it the sun was setting and it was time for it to leave and she flew away. Since that day, the butterfly has come to visit me at several times over the years, and no matter wherever I went, whatever I was working on, however I had changed in that time, I would have no choice but to drop everything and try in vain to remember, picture, and understand the richness and depths of those patterns I saw upon her wings.
I think there’s been one deeply fundamental principle I’ve been conscious of but never understood since that very first day. The butterfly always flies away when the sun sets every day. Whether she returns the next morning, in a month, or never again, will never be in my control. And that’s ok. If I, in my arrogance, tried to catch the butterfly to be paraded around for some cheap shot of recognition, she would die and I would never again see those bright blue wings flap in the wind. If I, in my insecurity, tried to cage her and tuck her away to be mine forever, then her colors would fade and her body would wither until I was left with nothing but a husk of the greatest gift I’ve ever had. I’ve once heard it said that the tighter you clench your fist, the faster the water slips through your fingers. Let your fingers lie still, therefore, and maybe a little butterfly, wings blue as the sky itself, will come to land, resting in the palm of your hands.