Countless Butterfly

© Kerry

© Kerry

from Ms. Emily ~ Poetry As Portal …

A science — so the Savants say,

“Comparative Anatomy” — 

By which a single bone — 

Is made a secret to unfold

Of some rare tenant of the mold,

Else perished in the stone — 

So to the eye prospective led,

This meekest flower of the mead

Upon a winter’s day,

Stands representative in gold

Of Rose and Lily, manifold,

And countless Butterfly! 

~~ Emily Dickinson (#100 Johnson)

___________________ and the portal led me …

Dig and root around, among body, earth and plant we find all secrets soon sharing their mystery little by bit and under the watchful moon, it is here our wandering eyes do behold as we follow into the chance moment; not by the science are we led but by heart of Gaia sink into Her bed and we then see the secrets without the need to scrape, uncover, rather here are bones, fragments of the story once whole and living. Here are the flowers in the grove of that one under ground wherein lies the skeleton draped in former glory we try to preserve … do we really want to learn the secret of life? We turn away from the mystery of death except that of body and hide the evidence in a box buried alone with a headstone marked and careful attention paid to disguise the way to secrets held ensouled.

Excavation, archeology — unearthing, exposing, revealing how the world works on a physical level — some may see this as finding the solution to the puzzle but I agree with others who feel that explanation is not the same as description … so while our sciences may describe the function, they cannot explain the mystery of how and why it all comes together, for reductionism, the relating to a single “bone” to think we can solve the riddle of walking is no more effective than thinking we know the story by reading about a single character’s leg, for without the interaction of body and communion there is no story. We can describe the components or aspects that comprise the character — or bone — but that doesn’t explain the activity that can go in a zillion directions.

I may go out and pick up a stone that glimmers in the shining sun but when I bring it into the house the darker nuance clouds the gleam until the stone is not what it seemed while lying on the ground where it was all surrounded by its friends who led it to the very end of hoof and claw and feather strange and on the air was winged things that picked it up and flung it down — a different spot — it traveled on.

A juicer lets the liquid flow but halts the pulp from going on and casts aside the fiber thick until the juice is thin and slick into the body one will go, without the other, separate now. Down to the essence, down to the dense, not of material but of presence, without the bulk we thin and slim and ghostly become in our material world, where once we held the flag and now the mind begins to lag behind the journey of friend and foe because there is no place to go when all is same and nothing new and overwhelm a constant companion.

Rest. Sleep. Fall into the deep and let go into Nature.

2 thoughts on “Countless Butterfly

  1. ‘Explanation is not the same as description.’

    Like you dear Darla, I must sense beauty before I think of it. Your words just float majestically like a leaf on a river…light and sensual.

    • Thank you, m’dear. (I’ve added the link into the text of where I was listening to a discussion about “explanation” and “description.” It was a lovely OnBeing audio with Marilynne Robinson and Marcelo Gleiser.)

Thank you for sharing.

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