It’s a soggy, sunny Sunday morning in North Florida with 74% humidity, the warmth of an oven without the offer of fresh bread. The yellow-black of the Tiger Swallowtail and burnt orange of the Gulf Fritillary butterflies weave in and out of vine-laden live oak and longleaf pine.
Within the green vine-blankets are oval glimpses into the heart of what is left of the woods, still verdant and vibrant with the red cardinal’s song and infrequent scamper of the squirrel along the limb of the longleaf.
I cannot help but look.
This is life, one expression of energy after another, exploding into eternity, moment after moment. What is more powerful?
Each unique: cardinal red, swallowtail yellow, and the deep-purple of the American Beautyberry. All explosive in their experience.
We may long for the idyllic but the mere experience of being does not content us for long. That is our history. It’s the stuff of battles, with a cry for peace.
Maybe the idyll is not what we seek. After all, peace is only one slice of the pie and, it seems, a thin sliver at that, usually left on the plate.
I cannot participate in the woods outside my window without causing chaos. Mine is not to stir the branches, dodging vines to make my way to the forest floor. I do not fit, in my human clumsiness.
Still, there seems something to learn so I watch on Sundays or moments similar, sometimes so seemingly close but always so far.