Butterflies are Free

They say that our ten-year-old self defines us. We are either trying to get back to that authentic person or trying to run away from the circumstances we found ourselves in at that time. I think this might be true. 

At ten, the world was my oyster. My fifth grade teacher was the best. At ten, you are living large. It's before all the hormones kick in and self-doubt overtakes your courage. It's before most of the bullies have found their marks. Puppy love is sweet and the event of the year is the hayride at the Harvest Festival. The playground is still cool. For me, the sky was very blue and clear that year. The rogue boys were still kept under control with paddles and clearly delineated authority figures. The girls kind-of ruled at that point, taller and seemingly smarter, the synapses of their brains maturing earlier than their male counterparts. I distinctly remember being amazed by eighth grade, when a group of boys started playing serious chess games, for fun. I saw their emergence and also (bless their hearts) their fascination with everything grungy. Our ten-year-old girl selves didn't understand that much. At least not back then. 

The ten year old is like a chrysalis. Growing inside their cocoon, unassuming about the future, free to wiggle and grow. Soon the walls will harden around them. Pain of all sorts will either impede or compel. When time ripens and then opens the doors, they will succeed or fail according to the nature of the nest they were in or maybe better, how they react to it.

I love butterflies. I love to paint pictures of them. The fine details, the veining, the colors. We all enjoy watching them flutter by, fragile jewels. Hard to imagine that such a beautiful thing was once a worm. A hardy, fat worm, not caring that it's ugly. Carefree days spent eating, grubbing about, just living. Then comes the fortress, built all around it, the death of everything it knows. One day, as the walls give way, the creature falls out, wet and crumpled, vulnerable and cold. She dries out slowly, wings unfurling. The worm doesn't know it's wonderful. It will take time and zephyrs for her to know that she can fly, unaware that her wings are both useful and gorgeous. Hopefully, she will figure that out before her day is done.