A butterfly’s memory
Centuries of wings
I used to feel I didn’t quite belong in this world. And when I finally started to root, I still felt old beyond my years.
Only now I have the impression that my age and my heritage are somehow starting to come into alignment.
It has taken me a long time to unfold. I’m a slow flower, a late tree to bud. But at last I feel that I understand what it is I carry, and I can start using what I know.
It’ s a bit as if someone — can’t even remember who — taught me an algebra formula when I was a kid and I memorized it, I could recite it and even do the math. But only now do I really understand what it’s for, and when I use it, it feels like I’m weaving magic.
There is beauty in youth. But to old age belongs another kind of elegance entirely, bought with experience and surrender, carrying the memory of sweetness yet without its lust or innocent voraciousness.
Older, we know what we crave. We are no longer driven blindly by a force that urges us on without understanding what it is. And we have the power to decide whether or not we will follow its trail. Sometimes we know the wiser thing is to stand down. And if we do choose to take on the challenge, we are careful not to rush things or force hands. We know true development takes time. Its own time.
I am glad to have arrived at this point, carrying my heritage and my strength. Old beyond my years but still in the force of life and ready to use it. Connected from the core to ancient things passed down in whispers but never truly forgotten.
A butterfly’s memory — centuries of wings.
