Sunday, August 23, 2009

The Butterfly tells me it's okay

Friday, August 21, 2009.  

The storm pelted me like a worn down animal.  The butterfly said it was okay, she led me down this path, to the rock in which I sit.  The rock, concrete in its foundation, sitting along the Potomac River, a rock like mermaids sit on.  I'm being eaten by a storm now.  I wasn't expecting it, the butterfly said it'll be okay, but it came all the same.  Quicker.  Quicker.  I was drawing the scenery in my sketch book but the pages became wet.  The scene around me was intense.  The cloud's wind pushing my body, ignoring my pleas.  The earth beneath me solid, although trying to be swayed by the cloud's mighty gusts.  The cloud not taking "no" for an answer, continues the punishment.  The rain now thicker, marbles hitting me, painting me with color.  I find cover under an old tree, hunching over my belongings, remembering that my diploma and other valuable items were hidden safe inside.  I thanked the old tree for giving me some sort of covering in this wicked rebellion.  I wanted to whimper there, cover my heart with an arched back from the rain, and wait it out. 

The storm was in front of my eyes.  I should of seen it coming.   Maybe I did, but I didn't trust it would hurt me because the butterfly led me there.  I saw the clouds get dark.  I saw people cowering to shelter because the sky was dark.  I chose not to trust my own eyes.  It was as if I was looking into a picture frame, staring at a painting.  The grey in the sky just markings the painter left to leave an impression on the observer.  Only paint strokes.  Colors: charcoal, sea foam, and dust.

The water soaked me through and through.  My body was wet, my clothes now heavy with liquid, dark with rain.  I remember sucking some water from my shirt, tasting the rain that was making my body so vulnerable.  As I was down, peering through the trees, I found two kayakers who had abandoned their boat and were now trying to find safety from the storm.  They were struggling through bushes and stones and trees.  Something came over me, to lead them to safety.  The Butterfly inside myself speaking up to say everything will be okay.  There was a man and woman.  They were from Maryland and came for an afternoon on the river.  The man was short and stumpy, his glasses protruded from his nose, his chin slightly lower than his shoulders.  It was as if a mole had dressed like a man.  The woman had a familiar face.  She was kind and confident.  They were debating whether to stay with the boat or trench through the land and I guess I was their answer.   She made a comment as I was leading them down the path, "We came this way because we saw you to guide us."  I was their butterfly it seemed.  I have to admit that at times I wanted to leave them.  They were slow, the man would constantly stumble because of a hurt hip.  But I knew they needed me and of course I would stay to help.  My wings were in flight and despite the rain, I continued flying.

After a while, the rain weakened.  We came to the Fletcher's Cove Park on the Potomac.  The skies were blue and beautiful.  The butterfly returned, showing herself out of the corner of my eye.  All was safe.

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