I wonder how I accomplish anything, running backwards chasing a misguided idea of perfection like an elusive butterfly: it alights on the green leaf of my consciousness just long enough for me to appreciate its infinite beauty — when I reach out to capture it. At this point it either flits away, just out of reach, and the tortuous chase continues, or, simply, painfully, I crush it, which is to say, I crush myself. And yet I know as we always know such things, that this is the mad chase for a backwards, deadening collection. It is all I can do to catch my breath, to stop running, to let this idea flit away, and to turn around: there is a field of butterflies in front of me; the chase is an illusion, and the world, now and always, is perfect.

Flying Butterfly at Magic Wings Butterfly Conservatory in South Deerfield, MA.