On deciding what kind of creature to be
On a recent morning walkabout with the dogs, I checked the burgeoning blanket of vines growing from a butternut squash I'd left on the counter too long and tossed into the central flower bed months before. A vibrant burst of butterfly startled away, it's flutter the same rich yellow as the blossoms. I peeked beneath the leaves, checking for swelling in places buds used to be, but found nothing but flowers in varying stages of bloom.
A patch of iridescent agitation buzzed nearby; a small mound of flies crawling and lifting into the air, then settling again. It was hard to tell what gathered them; dead slug, vomit, feces.
Declan and I have been navigating through shifting clouds of darkness lately, seeking light, seeking wholeness, seeking hope. Struggling to know when to speak and when to shut up, when to try to "help" and when to withdraw. What battles to enter, and what to watch from a distance.
It's been overwhelming, and our spirits are tired.
This mass of flies buzzed a message in their incessant hovering, their addiction, their feasting. Their inability fly away from the festering pile. They can't help it, of course; their beings are captivated by decay.
Watching it made me recognize the rightness of the direction our decisions have been stirring; the urge to startle and flutter away. To be drawn by beauty rather than rot, and to fly when the tender flesh of our spirits is threatened.
We all have to decide which kind of creature we want to be.
And we have chosen.