I saw my first dead butterfly of the year today. It was resting in the drying grass outside the dentist’s office. It was black and shimmery blue and a little bit orange, and one wing was crumbling away. You could tell right off it was dead because of the way the wind ruffled the wings a little. It always makes me a little sad to see dead butterflies– a little resigned, as though our efforts somehow had failed despite the valiance with which we daily live.

I don’t know why I feel that way. I’m hardly a defeatist person. On the contrary, I’m quite likely to ignore the failures and sins of society and bounce gaily onward, delighting in life while orphans are starving in Nigeria. Of the two of us, Mel is more the hero.

Anyway, the butterfly made me stop and think, because I’ve been writing a lot of childlike thoughts on butterflies lately because my little dance students are having a performance themed around butterflies in September. So my storywriting and choreogaphing and costume-designing have all been centered around butterflies for a while now. But I’ve stayed half-consciously away from the subject of butterfly-death as it’s hard for five-year-olds to deal with things like that when they are dressed in a butterfly costume. Hardly the best of taste.

The rest of my lack of taste becomes evident in the date of our performance: Monday, September Eleventh. Good gracious! But you know, the chapel is in high demand for weddings, and we have to compete with them; and 9/11 is really one of the few days of the year I suppose people consciously avoid scheduling weddings!!!

~Merry