Nature's Inspiration

The Butterfly Healing
by Jeri Dayle

It was my daughter Marie who found him on the way to day camp. She screamed. I looked down and saw a butterfly, stricken, unable to fly. Yet, whatever had broken his wing had not managed to break his spirit. Like my children, hope personified, he hobbled up the sidewalk, stopping to try his wings every few paces. I promised my girls I would take him home if he was still there after I had dropped them off and run my errands.

The butterfly was as we left him. So, I transferred my drugstore purchases to my pockets, carefully picked him up, and placed him into my shopping bag. All the way home, I gently shook the bag to make sure he was still alive and softly spoke to him, offering encouragement.

Safely home, I transferred the butterfly to a plastic pitcher and then prepared a snack of honey and water served in a bottle cap. He seemed to enjoy the artificial nectar, perking up and flitting his wings again. I dubbed him “Flit.”

During his stay with us, Flit brought us joy, beauty, and some life lessons. My daughters stopped whining and dawdling when leaving the camp, instead racing home to tend to their patient. They nursed Flit and brought him flowers to brighten his “hospital room.” They forgot to compete for attention, instead sharing in the feedings and checkups.

When Flit began to falter, Tiffany and Melissa sought advice. A neighbor suggested they poke him in the eye and put him out of his misery. “No way,” shouted little Melissa.

We made a decision: we would return Flit to the wild and let nature take its course. We propped Flit in a bush in our front yard and placed a flower beside him. When Marie began whimpering, Tiffany consoled her. “Flit will always be with you, here and here,” she whispered, pointing to her heart and head. Marie tried to imitate the gestures, but her little hand only managed to clutch her stomach. We watched him until the sun went down, sniveling and sending out our silent prayers.

The next morning, I found Flit lying still. I dreaded telling the girls, knowing it would be painful. I cried for the first time.

We held a funeral for Flit, and I marveled at how the girls instinctively knew what to do. Each extended a blade of grass toward the grave as she said her special good-bye and then dropped the offering atop the dirt mound. Later, Tiffany took the beading kit with which she was going to make a hair band for herself and fashioned a necklace for Marie instead. The brightly colored beads spelled out “Flit Lover.”

I’m not sure who grew more from our experience with Flit, my daughters, learning to be responsible, to nurture, to love, and to lose something dear, or me, once again embracing possibilities with childlike enthusiasm. What I do know is this: In trying to heal the butterfly, something healed inside each of us.