Butterflies & dragonflies

For several summers I have photographed butterflies in our backyard garden. Whenever one settles on a blossom, the camera waits with me until its fluttering wings reveal their intricate color. Zinnias, roses, leaves, and sunlight give me inspiration without asking me to make anything of it.

Dragonflies draw my eye in a different way, darting like glints of glass above the greenery. Their quick flight belongs to the garden’s life. A butterfly’s slower visit can feel like a tiny invitation: linger longer. Look again. How astonishing, this fleeting flash of color—a small spectacle so easily missed.

When the stillness after years of striving first arrived, it felt strange and sometimes empty. Slowly, little pleasures returned—flowers, walks, rain, and moments like these. Emergence has been subtle for me. It can be the body learning that it is safe to remain alive gently, and the eyes opening again to an ordinary day.

Not every butterfly needs to symbolize something beyond itself. The encounter alone enchants me. Even a sun-dappled afternoon among the flowers can stay with me long after the light has faded.

Interestingly enough, my own metamorphosis becomes clearer in the distance between Honing In to Home and Stillness, Solitude, and Silence. The earlier book grew inside a busy household; the later one opens into quieter attention. My love of nurturing has remained, while my days have gained room for curiosity. A butterfly visiting the garden feels like a fitting companion to that unfolding.

Watching small wings is a kind of contemplation for me. Their flight leads my gaze, then leaves it resting on a petal. For a little while, my questions can remain unanswered. Life keeps unfurling around me.