Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: GENTLE (10/21/21)
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TITLE: The Butterfly Whisperer | Previous Challenge Entry
By Tracy Nunes
10/27/21 -
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“Do you know how long your journey will be, little fellow?” she asks it, her regal voice softly questioning.
“Or do you just fly one little flutter at a time, somehow knowing the direction of home?”
The beautifully crafted creature doesn’t answer. Instead, it slowly pulls its wings up and pushes them down in a slow-motion dance to strengthen and dry its colorful, sculpted wings. The music ebbs and the video fades, only to start again moments later.
They call her The Butterfly Whisperer. Her photography and watercolor paintings document well her uncanny ability to commune with these ethereal creatures. It’s a mysterious miracle, a mesmerizing wonder, to all who witness it in her art.
She stands in front of a semicircle of admirers in an upscale art gallery; surrounded by patrons and fans adoring her creations. Her silver hair glows, her presence commanding attention, even as the room, floor to ceiling, is awash in orange and black. Every which way one turns, there is a feast for the eye and the soul.
“How do you do it, Miss Geneva? Do you speak butterfly?” a young woman asks with a giggle. Geneva smiles broadly in response.
“It must be because you are the essence of calm,” says another.
“No,” she confesses. “It’s neither.”
Seeing her artwork and the looping video has left the audience enraptured by its beauty and they wait patiently, in awe, for her to continue.
“You see, I have no special ability with the butterflies, at all. I’m an imposter.”
A few gasp quietly as the audience turns to one another with questioning faces. Is this part of the exhibition? A little drama to accompany the spellbinding exhibition?
Geneva motions an aid to bring her a stool to lean on. Though still vibrant at her well-seasoned age, she feels the need for some support. Her legs aren’t always in agreement with her insistence to stand on her own two feet.
She prays silently, and then continues.
“Anyone can do what I do with the butterflies. Anyone at all.”
Pausing, she looks around the room, making eye contact with some.
“You see, butterflies have a Maker. As do I. As do you. And He conceived a small window of time when the butterfly is free of its chrysalis, while its body is still swollen fat with fluid, and its wings not yet dry, when it will accept the gentle touch of a friend before it leaves for its journey home.”
Geneva’s throat feels dry, and she stops to sip water from an ornate wine glass.
“In that moment, I could easily crush it, or unwisely touch its wings, and hinder its ability to complete the task it was made for: an astonishing two-thousand-mile migration to a home it has never seen… but knows within its heart that it exists.”
“Like that butterfly, we are fragile, you and I. Our Maker treats us with kindness and gentleness. He reaches out for us but does not crush our wings. He offers His hand, but we must step forward to accept it.”
“Though He is in every stage: egg to caterpillar to chrysalis, He may not always make His hand so obvious. We must trust. And when He gives us a glimpse of what He has been doing all along, we must accept His outstretched hand.”
Without fanfare, Geneva bows slightly, and steps off the small stage while the audience tries to comprehend what she’s just said. Many shake their heads in confusion and others roll their eyes at their companions.
“Who knew that Geneva was a doddering old fool?” it was answered with snickers
But a small handful are transfixed, watching the video loop as Geneva’s words echo in their minds. One young girl, the five-year-old child of the gallery's owner, quietly slips next to her and softly places her tiny, perfect palm in Geneva’s gnarled old one.
Geneva turns and looks down into the eyes of the girl…the eyes of wonder in a true Believer.
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Thank you, keep writing.
Beautiful writing. Thank you.