Butterflies Are Meant to Fly

One of the saddest memories I have from childhood was when I was about four years old.   I was visiting my grandmother Chaké who lived on Berendo Avenue in Hollywood.  She lived with my great grandmother Azniv on the second floor of a semi-run-down building, in a small, dark two bedroom apartment.  They were both from Egypt, and based on my age I can figure they had only lived in the states for a few years at that point in my life.  I loved my Grandma Chaké.  She was an upbeat and positive person, and had a witch of a side that would emerge only occasionally.  Azniv on the other hand always had a hard edge to her.  Neither Chaké nor Azniv had much sentimentality, hardened as they were by their disappointments.  These are the disappointments that shape us, I suppose.

That back drop doesn’t have much to do with this story, except for the part about my grandmother lacking sentimentality.

I was on the tiny balcony of this apartment that overlooked the car park behind their building when I saw some butterflies fluttering around the flowering weeds that grew through the cracks in the driveway.  I was so drawn to butterflies then, and I still am.  I love how they fly and how wind pushes them around, but only slightly, as they fly.  I love how they right themselves on their flight paths with a little grace and determination.  I imagine them as joyful, if they were to have feelings.  When I was young all I wanted to do was hold one in my hand and enjoy its delicate beauty.  So pretty and resilient.  As I watched these butterflies air dance in the weeds, I decided to sneak out the kitchen door, climb down the stairs and try to catch one.  Somehow this afternoon, one springtime Monarch was a little slower than I was and I caught her gently in my four year-old hands.  My heart was racing with joy!  I was so excited I finally had a butterfly in my hands, but also terrified I might injure this lovely little fairy of the alley while preventing her escape.  Cupping her in my little hands, I ran upstairs to show my grandmother that I had indeed captured magic.

With great pride I showed my grandmother my little butterfly, and she was as delighted as I was with my prize.  I imagined keeping her in our apartment for awhile just to enjoy her at close range, but I knew keeping her in captivity would only be temporary.  I hadn’t thought much beyond that, I was so overwhelmed with happiness for having her so close.  But soon my joy would turn to horror.  I mean, at age four this was horror.  My grandmother admiringly took my butterfly, congratulated me on my good luck and then stuck a large pink-tipped straight pin right though her gut and pinned her to the doorpost of her bedroom.  I watched my precious catch flap her wings and slowly die on that doorpost.  I don’t remember what I said or did, but I must have vehemently and tearfully protested her premature death because I remember my grandmother telling me what a stupid little girl I was for shedding tears for a dumb butterfly.  The betrayal was worse because the heartless killer was my grandmother, someone I loved and trusted and who shared my joys, just not in the way I hoped.  She told be there were thousands more like her, and that at least pinned to a wall I could enjoy how pretty she was.  This was a useless argument on me.  I knew it wasn’t right for a butterfly to be pinned to a doorpost, and that a butterfly is only fully a butterfly when she is in flight.

Today, over 40 years later I find myself shedding tears for that butterfly, and for the girl I was then who died a little bit when her butterfly died. I still wish I could have freed her before she died.  I knew exactly how the butterfly felt, hopelessly pinned to the doorpost imagining her better days aloft in the breeze. 

I think I relate to this butterfly because I’ve spent my recent years getting unpinned myself, or really just letting go of the people and things that make me feel pinned down.  My marriage, some overbearing friends, certain family obligations, my boyfriend’s boat, a broken down car, half the contents of my garage, the false belief that I am responsible for everything and everyone.  These were all pins through my gut, and now they’re gone and I’m mostly free except for the scar tissue from being pinned.   This scar tissue keeps me running from everything that might be a pin, and when I find myself close to a pin, I feel it in my gut just like that butterfly. That’s the fate that terrifies me, losing my magic by the hands of another person who wants to pin me down.  I can’t shake that fear because all I want to do in this lifetime is fly.