The Butterfly

There are two distinct forms of people in this world, the faithful and the skeptics.  Then there are a vast number that exists somewhere in-between.  I suppose I fall into this group yet my mind constantly tortures me. It asks me to ask questions, it asks me to doubt.  Relying on faith alone would be so much easier yet something deep inside of me reminds me that to do so would be to deny the very existence of my brain.

Not far from my office in downtown Columbia, South Carolina there is a cemetery.  It is a mix of old and new graves that covers a large plot of land.  Often at lunch as a way of exercising I take a brisk 60 minute walk that often leads me to the winding paths, some mercifully shaded by tall trees.  For the most part I tune out the world as I walk by the graves with my iphone in hand and my ear buds in.  My eyes dance from one stone to the next reading the names and dates followed by a mental calculation of how long they lived.  Some names are so exotic, I wonder how they could have possibly ended up here.

It is spring in South Carolina and the leaves are emerging.  Birds go about their spring rituals of building nests and preparing for the eminent arrival of their chicks.  In this place filled with the dead life seems to stream in with the ferocity of the southern sun as it blankets the grass with activity.  Squirrels dart by, insects buzz.  A few caretakers work in a perpetual cycle trying to maintain the largely overwhelming plot of land.   There is one particular corner where the path follows an edge of the cemetery. It dips down and rising above on the left is a civil war cemetery followed by many graves dating back to the early 19th Century.  On the right side is a dense wooded area followed by a small break in the trees where another cemetery becomes visible.  It is a black cemetery. A legacy of a time when  humans were not human enough to be buried together.

It was on this shaded stretch of path when I first noticed a yellow butterfly.  It danced on the grass before taking flight. The odd thing was, it didn't leave me.  It stayed beside me.  periodically it would stop and when I caught up it would take flight again and then again.  This went on for several minutes as I watched it and wondered when it would leave.

Twelve years ago when my mother was dying I sat beside her in her bed. We spoke of life and the power of belief.  She was believing more in those final days. This is not an uncommon reality for a person that knows they will soon pass.  Thoughts of faith and of God seem to give solace.  They provide reassurance that something will welcome a soul that will soon leave the earthly binds of its body.  I am not sure I believe this.  The truth is, I have no idea what happens when you die.  My brain tells me you become fertilizer that is reborn in the life that subsequently follows.  Still, the thought gave my mother great comfort and in truth whatever the reality is,  the comfort it provided was worth more than gold.

I asked my mother if there was a spirit world would she visit me?  She reassured me that she would. "How will I recognize you?" I asked.  I mean I wanted to feel her again but I didn't want her to haunt me.  My mother held my hand and told me that if she was to visit me it would be as a butterfly. 

That spring day when I watched the yellow butterfly dance over the grass and fly by my side I couldn't help but surrender my mind to my emotion.  The ear buds slipped from my ears and with the birds singing in the trees I called out to her. "Mom." I said. "Mom is that you?"  I don't know what I expected to hear in return but the butterfly didn't leave, it continued to fly by my side as I walked.

Eventually it left me.  It left me to my rational mind and my deeply ingrained sense of doubt.  No matter. Despite my logic, despite my sense I still ask myself deep inside if just perhaps, just maybe it was my Mom just saying hello.