the abiding beauty of butterflies
It may seem strange to conjure butterflies in the aftermath of Winter Storm Indigo, an arctic blast of frigid temperatures and heavy snowfall that has left us with blindingly bright views of plush, wintry depths in every direction--us and much of the country. Occasional spots of color appear in the form of varied thrushes, Steller's jays, even our ginger hen, but one thing you won't spy contrasted against our frosted environs is a single, solitary butterfly. Not a real one, at any rate.
Come mid-March, it'll be four years since my mom's unexpected passing. I still think of her every day. I still wish she were here. While I imagine there will always be moments during which I'm struck with a piercing surge of grief, most of the time, when I think of her now, when I speak of her, it is with joy for the person she was and for the many meaningful ways in which she impacted my life. It is also with love, because, let's face it, I had an extraordinary mom, and I know how fortunate I am to be able to say that.
She wasn't a neurosurgeon, an astronaut, a Hollywood star, a world leader. She was something better--a woman who selflessly gave her all to her family, her friends, and her community, a stay-at-home mom, an active volunteer, an artist who, in any way she could, strived to make the world a better place. I could probably pen an entire book detailing the many ways in which she accomplished this, but I won't. This post, after all, is about butterflies...in a roundabout sort of way.
Mom loved butterflies, all butterflies really, though she was especially enamored with the monarchs that winged their way around the decorative windmill in our front lawn and frolicked over the freshly planted annuals of a Midwestern summer. She'd painted their likenesses often, even creating a larger-than-life mural of monarchs and meadow blooms over the cold concrete blocks of our once dank and dreary basement. So, when the idea of a memory box wiggled its way into my mind, I set my sights on three imperative design elements: an artistic array of vintage patterns, colors that Mom fancied, and, of course, those lovely Lepidoptera. There are countless items in our home that used to belong to Mom or that she'd crafted specifically for us, far more than could ever fit into an eleven-inch box. But this vessel was never intended to hold everything. This keepsake container was designed exclusively for cards.
I'm not talking about boxed holiday greetings or store-bought sentiments selected for an occasion. I'm talking about one-of-a-kind hand-painted treasures. While my mom had created larger artworks in oils, acrylics, charcoal, pastels since well before I was born, for the last decade or more of her life, despite the arthritis in her hands, she handcrafted almost every card she sent for nearly everyone to whom she sent them: birthdays, holidays, thank-you and just-because messages, and more. Those addressed to us, we tucked away, in a drawer here, in a cupboard there, never discarding a single one. In 2022, we'd started gathering them together. Over this past holiday season, Dennie and I found a few more filed into holiday totes, and I realized it was time.
I'd already designed a custom memorial print to attach inside the lid--nothing maudlin, mind you, but something that suited the woman I knew: something sunny and full of life, something with photos of her interspersed amongst butterflies and daisies, her favorite flower. We bought an unfinished box, searched for the other bits and bobs I'd require, and waited for that most elusive component--time to turn that hinged hunk of wood into a treasure-worthy tribute.
And here it is. I believe, with all my heart, Mom would have loved it. I wish, with all my heart, that she were painting more this very morning, that another mini-masterpiece would appear in my mailbox, then another and another until it became evident I'd need to start work on an equally artsy overflow card cache.
Most butterflies, you may not realize, live only a couple of weeks, yet, even in their absence, the memory remains of their graceful flights, their intricate patterns and remarkable hues. Their mercurial natures, their whimsical impressions are indelible. Even on the darkest, coldest winter days, we can visualize their vibrant figure-eights as if these fluttering friends persist before us; we can imagine the gentle give of petals as wispy limbs alight upon them. In human terms, Mom's life was not so different. She died potentially decades before her time. Hers was a life much too short, ended at the very beginning of a promising new future. Yet, in the time she had, through her actions, through the warmth of her smile, through her art, she shared with the world an enduring palette of color, hopefulness, good cheer, and an unrelenting love of life. For family, for friends, for the myriad strangers whose lives she touched, I'm proud to say she was my mom, a woman who, to me, will forever embody the abiding beauty of butterflies.