A great response to last week’s prompt, “wings.” I knew I’d never be able to pick a winner, so I called on guest judge Susan Edwards Richmond, poet and a founding editor of Wild Apples. While it was difficult, Susan settled on a favorite. “I selected Sarah Markley‘s writing because her descriptions are vivid and fresh, and she allows the moment to draw her in….She truly engaged herself with the topic and with her own words, and so engaged me as well.” Congratulations, Sarah! Your $10 amazon.com gift certificate is on its way. (Readers: Don’t miss Sarah’s beautifully honest blog.) Sarah’s entry below; all the other goodies are posted after the jump.
Butterflies and Dust
A little girl never outgrows her fascination with butterflies; the pull in her heart to run after them; the secret curiosity of what it would be like to be one. Even this little girl.
Spring comes early and short where I live. The winter warms up just enough to allow the hills to explode with yellow and lavender flowers, and then just as quickly, continues to heat and sucks most of the colored beauty from the hills. The blooms dry up before May even comes and we are left with tall brown stalks of what used to be wildflowers.
This is what I slowly picked my way through on a much needed mid-morning trail jog near my house. On a Monday, I ran by myself out of doors for the first time in about 10 days. Recovering from my weekend out of town last week had left me unmotivated and exhausted. I had to push myself out my front door and force myself to lace up my running shoes.
What greeted me was a corridor of dirty, hollow brown bushes that used to be green and yellow and fresh. They were dead now and waiting for the autumn wildfires.
Some spring birds with a little color on their chests fluttered to my right and in the bushes ahead. A dragonfly-like insect buzzed by me — large with a bright orange abdomen.
A little bit of color in the drab hallway of dead stalks. Life wasn’t gone from this hill; it was just hidden.
And as if she hasn’t yet sensed me running toward her, a small butterfly lands on the path in front of me and spreads her little wings wide. Brilliant yellow and black and orange like the spring flowers that have already died. She is a vibrant fragile dot on the rocky trail.
The vibrations from my feet on the ground scare her and she closes her wings tight. The underside of her wings are brown and grey, just like the dirt she is resting on. She is almost invisible for an instant and then she flies away. Fluttering bright and drab together, she disappears.
I’ve seen this tiny butterfly against a curtain of dusty brown and then against the grand, morning sky and I feel a little like this insignificant animal: one minute dazzling and brilliant and the next invisible and scared. No more little girl curiosity because suddenly I am a tiny insect, feeling the full weight of radiance and fear at the same time.
As a woman, a mother, I know my worth, that I have brilliance and beauty. I can see it in my children; I can witness it in the words I write. But more often, I just see dusty wings. The grime and the hurt and the fear of life cloud my vision of myself.
This morning I realized that beauty is often shrouded in drab clothes, and that brilliance and invisibility can exist together. And even I am a butterfly of sorts, beautiful and dusty at the same time.
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Keri Smith is a guerilla artist, blogger, and the author of several books, including Wreck this Journal — a ground-breaking approach to creativity. In print and online, Keri offers a treasure-trove of creative inspiration, including terrific freebies on her website and blog, such as:
Studio Mothers: Life & Art 