Stephanie, What a beautiful meditation on life and butterflies, metaphor and what we learn about ourselves and human existence from sitting with (or following) other creatures! I am honored to share nature knowledge with you, and doubly honored to hear those stories reflected back woven with your deep understanding of myth and metaphor. Thank you. We are survivors, laying our eggs of meaning and wisdom as we go through life. I sit with the gnarled big sagebrush shrubs who grow taller than me along the Uncompahgre River here, inhaling the fragrances and listening to the river rush by, tumbling as it goes, fresh with snowmelt and spring flow. That is my place of refuge and inspiration. Blessings!
I agree that nature has much to teach us! And thank you for the beautiful benediction. Fingers crossed that I will be walking a different branch of the Gunnison River drainage before summer's end. May you find the forest paths you long for, and may they enfold you with peace and grace.
I'm not sure about promised land, but I'm where I ought to be, need to be, on this hard-scrabble corner of Texas Hill Country, where women have been surviving--as nomads/migrants traveling through for almost 10,000 years, as settlers just since 1850. I saw a tattered Monarch this morning, on its way north from winter in Mexico. No visa or papers, just trusting the wind and the light to take it where it needs to be, too. Thank you for the lovely post, Stephanie. Always a great pleasure to read . . .
I think of that more all the time, Stephers. I spent the first half of my life on the move. Staying in one place is a way of yielding to the place, learning what it is and how it lives, becoming part of it. Whatever, wherever it is. (Not a message we upwardly-, outwardly-bound humans want to hear.)
To yield to place, learning what it is and how it lives, becoming a part of it . . . this I hope to experience before closing the book on the last chapter.
This is so fascinating to me. I was thinking of both you and Susan T. this morning for different reasons. I mentioned butterflies to Susan T. a few weeks ago, and I also published a piece called "Butterflies" some years back that was more about a spiritual experience involving a butterfly than anything relating to the study of butterflies. It's interesting to me to see how each of us looks at the same thing differently and learns from one another. While I mean that to apply to the three of us, I also mean it to refer to all of us, or a lot of us. We're all connected, somehow.
I love that sense of connection through things and people and events . . . the human experience and each of us dance it a little differently. We are connected by butterfly wings and ancient songs. You are in my heart, Christina.
What a beautiful poem! I love your promised land; it is so wonderful to write in nature, and I am so happy that you have an oasis to write in and just be. Nature is restorative. My promised land includes the Smoky Mountains, which I was fortunate enough to hike in. The utter beauty permeated my soul, and I will never forget it. I also enjoy my garden a lot (here in the Chicago area spring starts rather late and winter comes too early, so times in the garden are limited).
My other promised land is my easel and canvas, which helps me paint, easing the burdens of my soul and giving me peace.
What you shared about this particular butterfly species is fascinating. I didn't know about this butterfly's deceptive self-protective ways. I love how the butterfly is deemed a survivor. What a beautiful perception!
I am so grateful for your posts, which are filled with beautiful perceptions and insights. Thank you, my dear friend!
Beth, I have always wanted to hike in the Smoky Mountains. Those soul-piercing experiences inform for the rest of our lives. And of course, easel and canvas are your promised land, and one which many of us have gotten to share in.
The deceptive, self-protective ways of butterflies. . . like who knew?! I loved learning that. Thank you for being here and for always welcoming me to your Substack. Honored to be part of such a creative and thoughtful tribe. Biggest of hugs dear friend.
Kinship of the old in flesh and bone. The tatter-winged survivors, laying eggs of poetry in the loam of other fertile minds. This week the word evaporate has come to describe the process of deeper old age. Your writing brought me this unexpected peace of simply sitting with pen and journal, wondering.
Vicki, that sense of wondering, of thinking and parsing through -- the idea of kinship of the old, in flesh and bone -- that is so beautiful. Thank you.
Like you, my backyard is my haven. The world outside the fence line is getting too weird even here in the country. So I wander between my two favorite seating places, my recliner in the house and my swing in the garden. I can watch the birds at the feeders and the lizards skittering about the rocks. Hopefully, last year's toads will emerge and join the fun. I was so excited to have toads in my garden that with a small birdbath broke, I left the pieces there amongst the wildflowers for them to shelter. The inside of the base is a bit larger in circumference that they are. And the birdsong. Oh my dear Stephanie, put away the earbuds and listen to the symphony of the birds.
They were mostly very quiet, although I did hear a half-hearted squeak or two a couple of times. Nothing as lyrical as the frogs that live in a pond a block away. Now there's a symphony. And the crickets and katydids provide the counterpoint.
I guess with the very lyrical frogs living nearby, the toads might be shy about singing out. I do love the sounds of crickets. They tend to serenade late at night.
Beautiful thankyou. This morning i saw a caterpiller for the first time in our garden. We live in apartments in an industrial city, so it was a great joy to me. My promised land... I still dont think ive found anywhere as restorative as the side of a hill on the property where i grew up in Australia, sitting on a granite rock as the sun drew beautifully on the native grasses around me. The changing light of both the sun and the moon are constants for me wherever I live. Now the Merendon Mountains are my sentinel, they are the backdrop to this industrial city in Honduras I now call home, and el Merendon feeds my spirit every day.
I love the cycle of light and dark too -- the way the color shifts from blackness to silver, before it lets in the blue -- and the way the colors settle at the end of the day into shades of gray just before the stars appear -- a beautiful reminder of this ongoing, consistent cycle of change. Thank you, Melanie.
Stephanie, your beautiful, wise words are a gift holding such wisdom and tenderness. I’m deeply moved by how you’ve drawn the resilience of nature, the symbolism of the butterfly and the beauty of aging with such grace and clarity. The image of (creative) eldering as both demise and fruition is thought-provoking, and the connection you’ve made with survival, promise and potential resonates deeply. Thank you so much for sharing this today, you’ve reminded me how much there is to learn from the natural world, Her cycles and Her quiet truths. I heart Susan’s posts too!
I heart (Susan's) her posts too. This made me grin and giggle, Deborah. There's something so sweet and sincere about "hearting" someone's work. You are such an exquisite poet and I'm loving your book, "Croneology." Poems that deserve to be read aloud. Big hugs my friend with the Jungian bend.
I look forward to receiving your Substack, Stephanie. And how lucky and blessed are we that we get such wonderful access and connection with nature. Also, if you have not yet discovered Maria Rodale's Substack, I only just learned of her writing this morning from a note that Julie Gabrielli shared, and I have a sense that you may relish in Maria Rodale's writing too. I've been reading a lot of her archive, and I enjoyed this one especially: https://mariarodale.substack.com/p/to-all-the-men-who-want-women-to
It's too early here in Upstate New York (an hour from Ontario Lake and an hour and a half from the Adirondack Park) for butterflies, but I have been enjoying the robins. And boy, do we have a lot of robins this year! They call one another, they squabble with one another and they nest with each other. The return of the robins really means spring here and I delight in their return promising more warmth, more sunlight and hopefully, more lazy days of summer. We're just getting our patio ready for outdoor furniture and then my morning rituals will move outside. I, too, look into the woods from the backyard. It is my spiritual home where I think, breathe and meditate better than any other place. Thank you Stephanie for your thoughtful writing that always brings me back to what's important in my life.
Jan, here's hoping for a warm and lovely spring in your neck of the woods. Thinking of you this morning as I sit with my cup of tea, breathing in the green of the day, and listening for whispers from the trees.
What a gorgeous post! The image of a survivor butterfly reminded of the marvel of being on Cape May for the Monarch butterfly migration. That such fragile beings could survive a long journey makes me sure of our survival when faced with difficult times. (Thank you, Susan T) As an urban dweller, I have a few havens. At home, I'm surrounded by photos of people and places I love and melt into them. In spring and summer, Prospect Park is full of surprising tiny fairy circles, waterfalls, and always, my beloved turtles and birds at the lake.
That butterfly migration must have been a breath-taking sight! There is something that speaks to us about butterflies as survivors and beings of resilience -- it's an image for these times!
Surprising, tiny fairy circles in Prospect Park! You have to take a picture and send it. You still have my gmail, right? The image of tiny fairy circles has piqued my interest!
PS - I adore turtles. They're such prehistoric wonders. Sending you love and hugs, Susan.
The grace of my promised land is to have what I want and to want what I have. This promise has been delivered after many tears, untangling of projections and expectations, and embracing what at one time I thought not beautiful. My life is a bounty of beauty. This does not mean easy, yet grace is here. Sending a hug for you and your gorgeous writing.
So well put, Prajna -- to have what you want and want what you have. A good ideal to live by. And you always seem to walk in beauty. It's just your way. Sending you big hugs back and much gratitude for your inspiration and influence.
Gosh, look what came of that trip to the nursery and you spotting that beautiful butterfly. What a lovely story you created from that encounter. The butterfly survives despite those tattered wings. As a cancer survivor, something about that really resonates. I can't quite put it into words. Maybe it's about that connection all living things share... and vulnerability all living creatures experience. Butterflies just don't think about it like we do. I sometimes feel (and probably look) quite tattered, too.
My promised land - hmm. That's something to think about. I think it changes from day to day. Some days, it's sitting on my deck which overlooks a small lake and my backyard that's filled with towering white pines. Those trees have such a way of putting me in my place. I know some have been around for likely 200+ years. Like you, I feel a special kinship to trees. Other days, my promised land is in my writing. By the way, I cannot write outside. I lack the concentration to do that. I have trouble reading outdoors too! The mountains also hold special appeal. Lucky for me, my daughter lives in MT, so I get to see them now and then and feel their prescence. Again, they humble me.
Thank you for yet another eloquent piece of writing. I love the title. Your essays always get me thinking... So thank you for that, too!
There is something poignant about the image of tattered wings and survival that is especially relatable as women. It makes me think of your post, "I Miss Them" https://nancyspoint.substack.com/p/i-miss-them-my-breasts. And, as you put forth here, that connection of vulnerability that all living creatures experience.
Promised land. . . it does shift from time to time, place to place, doesn't it? But I think I'll always come back to the trees. And writing its own promised land. I'm so glad you're here and that we can share our love of story and poetry and the path forward. Big hugs my friend.
Stephanie, What a beautiful meditation on life and butterflies, metaphor and what we learn about ourselves and human existence from sitting with (or following) other creatures! I am honored to share nature knowledge with you, and doubly honored to hear those stories reflected back woven with your deep understanding of myth and metaphor. Thank you. We are survivors, laying our eggs of meaning and wisdom as we go through life. I sit with the gnarled big sagebrush shrubs who grow taller than me along the Uncompahgre River here, inhaling the fragrances and listening to the river rush by, tumbling as it goes, fresh with snowmelt and spring flow. That is my place of refuge and inspiration. Blessings!
THIS: "We are survivors, laying our eggs of meaning and wisdom as we go through life."
I think it's possible that nature reveals all things. May the waters of river's rush sing to you.
I agree that nature has much to teach us! And thank you for the beautiful benediction. Fingers crossed that I will be walking a different branch of the Gunnison River drainage before summer's end. May you find the forest paths you long for, and may they enfold you with peace and grace.
I'm not sure about promised land, but I'm where I ought to be, need to be, on this hard-scrabble corner of Texas Hill Country, where women have been surviving--as nomads/migrants traveling through for almost 10,000 years, as settlers just since 1850. I saw a tattered Monarch this morning, on its way north from winter in Mexico. No visa or papers, just trusting the wind and the light to take it where it needs to be, too. Thank you for the lovely post, Stephanie. Always a great pleasure to read . . .
Maybe the promised land IS just were we are, or just where we need to be. I'm more like that Monarch in that regard, trusting the wind.
I love that you live on the hard-scrabble corner where women have been surviving for 10,000 years. That alone is poetry to the soul. Big hugs.
I think of that more all the time, Stephers. I spent the first half of my life on the move. Staying in one place is a way of yielding to the place, learning what it is and how it lives, becoming part of it. Whatever, wherever it is. (Not a message we upwardly-, outwardly-bound humans want to hear.)
To yield to place, learning what it is and how it lives, becoming a part of it . . . this I hope to experience before closing the book on the last chapter.
This is so fascinating to me. I was thinking of both you and Susan T. this morning for different reasons. I mentioned butterflies to Susan T. a few weeks ago, and I also published a piece called "Butterflies" some years back that was more about a spiritual experience involving a butterfly than anything relating to the study of butterflies. It's interesting to me to see how each of us looks at the same thing differently and learns from one another. While I mean that to apply to the three of us, I also mean it to refer to all of us, or a lot of us. We're all connected, somehow.
I love that sense of connection through things and people and events . . . the human experience and each of us dance it a little differently. We are connected by butterfly wings and ancient songs. You are in my heart, Christina.
We are connected, in the most interesting and synchronous ways, Christina! And how fortunate we are to have these links.
Hi Stephanie,
What a beautiful poem! I love your promised land; it is so wonderful to write in nature, and I am so happy that you have an oasis to write in and just be. Nature is restorative. My promised land includes the Smoky Mountains, which I was fortunate enough to hike in. The utter beauty permeated my soul, and I will never forget it. I also enjoy my garden a lot (here in the Chicago area spring starts rather late and winter comes too early, so times in the garden are limited).
My other promised land is my easel and canvas, which helps me paint, easing the burdens of my soul and giving me peace.
What you shared about this particular butterfly species is fascinating. I didn't know about this butterfly's deceptive self-protective ways. I love how the butterfly is deemed a survivor. What a beautiful perception!
I am so grateful for your posts, which are filled with beautiful perceptions and insights. Thank you, my dear friend!
Beth, I have always wanted to hike in the Smoky Mountains. Those soul-piercing experiences inform for the rest of our lives. And of course, easel and canvas are your promised land, and one which many of us have gotten to share in.
The deceptive, self-protective ways of butterflies. . . like who knew?! I loved learning that. Thank you for being here and for always welcoming me to your Substack. Honored to be part of such a creative and thoughtful tribe. Biggest of hugs dear friend.
Kinship of the old in flesh and bone. The tatter-winged survivors, laying eggs of poetry in the loam of other fertile minds. This week the word evaporate has come to describe the process of deeper old age. Your writing brought me this unexpected peace of simply sitting with pen and journal, wondering.
Vicki, that sense of wondering, of thinking and parsing through -- the idea of kinship of the old, in flesh and bone -- that is so beautiful. Thank you.
Join me over at @comingofaging
YES! I recently subscribed. Thank you for posting your link here! Big hugs.
Vicki is golden here on Whidbey through her activism and community involvement. Was happy to see she's found you!
I love small world, we find our own - kind of stories. When you next see her, please give her a hug and tell her it's from me!
Gladly. Our paths cross often. Saw her this morning after the Once Upon a Time Writing Café.
Like you, my backyard is my haven. The world outside the fence line is getting too weird even here in the country. So I wander between my two favorite seating places, my recliner in the house and my swing in the garden. I can watch the birds at the feeders and the lizards skittering about the rocks. Hopefully, last year's toads will emerge and join the fun. I was so excited to have toads in my garden that with a small birdbath broke, I left the pieces there amongst the wildflowers for them to shelter. The inside of the base is a bit larger in circumference that they are. And the birdsong. Oh my dear Stephanie, put away the earbuds and listen to the symphony of the birds.
Do toads croak like frogs do? Do they have their own unique sound? They sound like interesting critters.
They were mostly very quiet, although I did hear a half-hearted squeak or two a couple of times. Nothing as lyrical as the frogs that live in a pond a block away. Now there's a symphony. And the crickets and katydids provide the counterpoint.
I guess with the very lyrical frogs living nearby, the toads might be shy about singing out. I do love the sounds of crickets. They tend to serenade late at night.
Beautiful thankyou. This morning i saw a caterpiller for the first time in our garden. We live in apartments in an industrial city, so it was a great joy to me. My promised land... I still dont think ive found anywhere as restorative as the side of a hill on the property where i grew up in Australia, sitting on a granite rock as the sun drew beautifully on the native grasses around me. The changing light of both the sun and the moon are constants for me wherever I live. Now the Merendon Mountains are my sentinel, they are the backdrop to this industrial city in Honduras I now call home, and el Merendon feeds my spirit every day.
I love the cycle of light and dark too -- the way the color shifts from blackness to silver, before it lets in the blue -- and the way the colors settle at the end of the day into shades of gray just before the stars appear -- a beautiful reminder of this ongoing, consistent cycle of change. Thank you, Melanie.
Stephanie, your beautiful, wise words are a gift holding such wisdom and tenderness. I’m deeply moved by how you’ve drawn the resilience of nature, the symbolism of the butterfly and the beauty of aging with such grace and clarity. The image of (creative) eldering as both demise and fruition is thought-provoking, and the connection you’ve made with survival, promise and potential resonates deeply. Thank you so much for sharing this today, you’ve reminded me how much there is to learn from the natural world, Her cycles and Her quiet truths. I heart Susan’s posts too!
I heart (Susan's) her posts too. This made me grin and giggle, Deborah. There's something so sweet and sincere about "hearting" someone's work. You are such an exquisite poet and I'm loving your book, "Croneology." Poems that deserve to be read aloud. Big hugs my friend with the Jungian bend.
I look forward to receiving your Substack, Stephanie. And how lucky and blessed are we that we get such wonderful access and connection with nature. Also, if you have not yet discovered Maria Rodale's Substack, I only just learned of her writing this morning from a note that Julie Gabrielli shared, and I have a sense that you may relish in Maria Rodale's writing too. I've been reading a lot of her archive, and I enjoyed this one especially: https://mariarodale.substack.com/p/to-all-the-men-who-want-women-to
Camilla, thanks for turning me onto Maria's writing.
Yes, it is truly a blessing to have connection with nature . . . and with our tribe of kindred spirits here. Biggest of hugs, my friend.
It's too early here in Upstate New York (an hour from Ontario Lake and an hour and a half from the Adirondack Park) for butterflies, but I have been enjoying the robins. And boy, do we have a lot of robins this year! They call one another, they squabble with one another and they nest with each other. The return of the robins really means spring here and I delight in their return promising more warmth, more sunlight and hopefully, more lazy days of summer. We're just getting our patio ready for outdoor furniture and then my morning rituals will move outside. I, too, look into the woods from the backyard. It is my spiritual home where I think, breathe and meditate better than any other place. Thank you Stephanie for your thoughtful writing that always brings me back to what's important in my life.
Jan, here's hoping for a warm and lovely spring in your neck of the woods. Thinking of you this morning as I sit with my cup of tea, breathing in the green of the day, and listening for whispers from the trees.
Inspiring me to sit in my urban back yard. Bless you Beauty!!!
Back yards . . . our little strip of land with which to commune. Sending big hugs, Kate, and sweet bird song.
What a gorgeous post! The image of a survivor butterfly reminded of the marvel of being on Cape May for the Monarch butterfly migration. That such fragile beings could survive a long journey makes me sure of our survival when faced with difficult times. (Thank you, Susan T) As an urban dweller, I have a few havens. At home, I'm surrounded by photos of people and places I love and melt into them. In spring and summer, Prospect Park is full of surprising tiny fairy circles, waterfalls, and always, my beloved turtles and birds at the lake.
That butterfly migration must have been a breath-taking sight! There is something that speaks to us about butterflies as survivors and beings of resilience -- it's an image for these times!
Surprising, tiny fairy circles in Prospect Park! You have to take a picture and send it. You still have my gmail, right? The image of tiny fairy circles has piqued my interest!
PS - I adore turtles. They're such prehistoric wonders. Sending you love and hugs, Susan.
Will do. Yes, I have your email, it just might take time as they’re hidden and sometimes impossible to find.
You know that patience is my strong suit, right? (LOL) Thanks, Susan. Have a wonderful day!
I especially like
"blossoming does not gently unfold
it earns its opening"
Well done!
Thank you, Lynn. You and I must know what it's like to "earn" one's bloom! Big hugs.
Hello, Beautiful Stephanie,
The grace of my promised land is to have what I want and to want what I have. This promise has been delivered after many tears, untangling of projections and expectations, and embracing what at one time I thought not beautiful. My life is a bounty of beauty. This does not mean easy, yet grace is here. Sending a hug for you and your gorgeous writing.
So well put, Prajna -- to have what you want and want what you have. A good ideal to live by. And you always seem to walk in beauty. It's just your way. Sending you big hugs back and much gratitude for your inspiration and influence.
Hi Stephanie,
Gosh, look what came of that trip to the nursery and you spotting that beautiful butterfly. What a lovely story you created from that encounter. The butterfly survives despite those tattered wings. As a cancer survivor, something about that really resonates. I can't quite put it into words. Maybe it's about that connection all living things share... and vulnerability all living creatures experience. Butterflies just don't think about it like we do. I sometimes feel (and probably look) quite tattered, too.
My promised land - hmm. That's something to think about. I think it changes from day to day. Some days, it's sitting on my deck which overlooks a small lake and my backyard that's filled with towering white pines. Those trees have such a way of putting me in my place. I know some have been around for likely 200+ years. Like you, I feel a special kinship to trees. Other days, my promised land is in my writing. By the way, I cannot write outside. I lack the concentration to do that. I have trouble reading outdoors too! The mountains also hold special appeal. Lucky for me, my daughter lives in MT, so I get to see them now and then and feel their prescence. Again, they humble me.
Thank you for yet another eloquent piece of writing. I love the title. Your essays always get me thinking... So thank you for that, too!
There is something poignant about the image of tattered wings and survival that is especially relatable as women. It makes me think of your post, "I Miss Them" https://nancyspoint.substack.com/p/i-miss-them-my-breasts. And, as you put forth here, that connection of vulnerability that all living creatures experience.
Promised land. . . it does shift from time to time, place to place, doesn't it? But I think I'll always come back to the trees. And writing its own promised land. I'm so glad you're here and that we can share our love of story and poetry and the path forward. Big hugs my friend.
Grateful for your words and your direction, Stephanie. So happy you've immersed yourself in nature...and your writing.
Nature. Writing. And a few good friends who listen deeply. I'm a blessed woman.