Butterfly

Vivir con miedo es como vivir en medias
~ Spanish Proverb

I’ve been conquering some fears recently — or trying to.

On May 5th, I attended Wings of Hope in Escondido.  Organised by the Center for Compassionate Care of the Elizabeth Hospice (which also hosts the EmptyCradle.org meetings I’ve attended), Wings of Hope was a butterfly release event to pay tribute to loved ones who have either died or who are facing serious illness.  Although it wasn’t specifically for miscarriage, I decided to attend anyway.  I thought about all the people I’ve loved who have died.

Mizuko Bean
Nanny
Peggy
Dick
Joan
Kitty
Caro
Cecily
Kimberly

I arrived a few minutes late.  The room, a large gallery space, had a couple hundred people sitting quietly.  A line of people stood against the back wall.  A harpist played some peaceful music as a slideshow of names was projected in super scale on the wall.  I slipped into a an empty spot along a side wall and looked up.  The first name I saw was Serenity Angel — the name of the baby with a fatal brain defect born to the young couple I met at my first Empty Cradle meeting.  I was so surprised and moved by this coincidence that I got a little choked up.

The slideshow of names ended, and with it the music, and the director of the Elizabeth Hospice said a few words.  She reminded us that this time of year, the notion of Spring, with all its holidays, including Mother’s Day, is a tough time for many.  In that moment, in that room full of people all mourning Someone and nodding along, I felt less alone.

We were directed outside to a patio where we would release the butterflies. Slowly, the mood brightened.  People collected their butterflies, sleepy from the cold in little opaque envelopes, and were excited.  The butterflies cost $25 each (to raise money for the Center) but the main reason I didn’t buy one is because…. I am terrified of butterflies.  Strictly speaking, I am terrified of moths, and therefore I am terrified butterflies too.  Maybe it was seeing a worm-eaten moth the size of a bird when I was a young child; maybe it was watching Silence of the Lambs with a girl who wouldn’t stop screaming at the Death’s Head Moths; maybe it was the variety of fluttering wingéd beasties that threatened to fly near my face as I brushed my teeth beneath fluorescent lights at boarding school, but I am terrified of flying caterpillars.

Or was.

If I had to sum up the past month of my life in a single sentence, it might be I can do anything — except get through this. I was there because I had no better place to be and I thought I might be able to conquer my fear.  I had no idea that counter-conditioning would be so easy — that the oohs and ahhs from grown men, the giggling of women, the squealing of children, the delight of each person as they released their sleepy butterflies was enough for me to be able to enjoy myself.  I had no idea that I would regret not having bought a butterfly and so happy to learn here were some leftover.  Mine, a Monarch, fluttered and flopped onto the white tablecloth before flying off.  I was sorry not to have more time with it.  All around me, people were chattering in their groups.  I tried to make conversation with a couple of women nearby, but they were confused by my accent (I presume) and chose to ignore me.  I was able to shrug this off, but decided it was time to leave.

I slowly made my way across the courtyard, keeping my eyes peeled for butterflies resting on the ground, when there, on the pamphlet table, stretching its wings next to a fake butterfly on a gaudy plastic flower, I spotted another Monarch. I watched as it furled and unfurled its proboscis and tasted printed paper. It flew up and spiralled to the ground, landing at my feet. I found myself crouching and reaching out my hand.  To my astonishment and delight, it clambered aboard my fingers and allowed me to stand up straight, still holding it in my palm.  I held my hand in front of my nose and studied the butterfly for a few minutes before it flew away.  I couldn’t help but be reminded of my Bean — a tiny, delicate life that trusted me and then disappeared on the wind.