Martin and the Butterfly

 

Once upon a time, Martin was walking along the road near his house.  While he was walking, a butterfly flew close to him. 

 

It was a very beautiful butterfly.  It’s wings were all the colours of the rainbow.  They shimmered in the sunlight.

 

Martin held out his hand, and the butterfly landed on it.

 

 “You are very beautiful.” Said Martin to the butterfly  “You can stay on my hand for as long as you like.”  The butterfly flapped its wings, waved its antennae, and settled on Martin’s hand.

 

Martin sat down on a log next to the road and held his hand steady, so the butterfly could be free to stay as long as it liked.  He was very careful not to hold too tight, because to do so would damage its beautiful but fragile wings.

 

A wind came.  Martin held his other hand up next to the butterfly to protect it from the wind, so the butterfly could be free to stay as long as it liked.

 

When the wind was gone, it began to rain.  Martin moved his other hand over the butterfly to protect it from the rain, so the butterfly could be free to stay as long as it liked. 

 

The rain stopped. 

 

The sun came out again.

 

The butterfly flapped its wings.  Their colours rippled and shone in the sunlight.  They were truly lovely!

 

Then, waving its antennae to Martin, the butterfly flew away, as butterflies do.

 

Martin was very sad to see the butterfly go, but he was also very happy.  The butterfly had come to him, and it had stayed for as long as it liked.

 

Martin got up, and began to walk home.

 

As he was walking home, Martin thought about the butterfly.  He remembered its beautiful wings.  He remembered protecting it from the wind.  He remembered protecting it from the rain.  He remembered the butterfly waving its antennae to him.  He remembered it flying away.

 

Everything he remembered was very good, even the sad part, when the butterfly flew away.

 

So, Martin collected all his memories of the butterfly together and put them in the space in his heart where he kept his most special treasures.

 

And there they stayed for always.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Together Again

 A few days after my Dad died I had the most vivid dream of him. He’d called me to show me where he was. It was a beautiful place; warm and sunny with beaten earth paths winding between old, whitewashed stone buildings.

Dad was barefoot, as was I. I remember the feel of the ground under my feet.  It was lovely.

At one point he leaned his head on my shoulder in a half-hug he used to give me and on his face was a look of blissful, joyful peace. Something I rarely saw when he was alive.

As signs go I considered it good enough for me. Wherever Dad was he was out of pain and beyond all the cares and regrets that used to haunt him while he was alive.

Mum lived another 2 years after Dad died, but was pretty lost without her partner of 60-odd years.
Her death was quite sudden. She was sitting in her chair, holding hands with her favourite nurse and having a giggle about life, death and missing Dad when she just rolled up her eyes and… left.

A couple of days later I was struck by another vision. One where Dad came into her room that day and, with that quiet half smile of his, held out his hand and said “You coming Ann?”.
In that moment there was nothing any of us in this world could have offered that would come close to that invitation. Mum replied “Oh, of course Len!”, took his hand and they walked from the room together.

Very probably the conversation, as they drifted away hand in hand, would have been something like:
“Two years Len! Why did it take you two years? I’ve been waiting here for ages…”
“Well I had to get the garden straightened out first, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but really, there are only so many crosswords a girl can do……”

And they would both be happy and content.

Ever since then I’ve had a little picture in my head. I finally had some spare time this weekend and got it on paper. It’s just called “Together Again”.

Musings on God, Science and Mortality...

 

When Nietzche’s madman told us “You’ve killed God!  Now what will you do?” He had a point.  For literally thousands of years we have been tying morals, truth and our very purpose and meaning to any number of gods.  Religions disseminated truths, specified acceptable behaviours, explained why things happened, gave us actions to take in the face of events that were otherwise out of our control.  We identified ourselves by them.  We belonged.

Take away our God and you take away our identity, our place in the world and our understanding of it. 

You take away our Story.

Humankind have always been storytellers.  From the dawn of (our) time we have used stories to entertain, convey deeper truths, help us remember important things, instruct, inspire and challenge.

You could argue religions are mostly stories people started taking too seriously…

But what happens when people begin concluding that the gods they have been so firmly attached to may not, in fact, be real?  When their Story begins to fall apart around them, leaving them bereft of purpose, guidance and that foundational sense of belonging?

Secular Humanism is a great approach to working out the problem of morals and ethics, but it is a little dry on the storytelling side of things.

Science and the Scientific Method has been the greatest single tool for determining the truth of the reality around us that humankind ever developed, but, you know…

Take the sun for example.  Science tells us it is mostly helium and hydrogen, compressed by the force of gravity so hard it forms a plasma and begins a process of atomic fusion which generates enormous amounts of energy in the form of heat and radiation, which we call light.

Good to know, but not nearly as fun, engaging or memorable as “The sun is Helios, who drives a chariot across the sky each day and sails around the ocean each night in a huge cup”…

We need stories.  And we need to feel we are part of one that is bigger than ourselves.  Our brains are wired up that way.  We are The Storytelling Ape.

But if you look at the knowledge we currently have in the right way, we ARE part of a story.  A vast, timeless story full of violence and nurturing, birth and death, the mundane and the unutterably beautiful.

The origin of our universe is still shrouded in mystery.  It fizzled and fizzed, cooled and coalesced until whirling clouds of gas fell in on themselves and the first stars ignited.  They blazed in furious glory before burning themselves out, in their cataclysmic death throes spraying ever more complex elements into the cosmos, producing every element that makes everything, including us.

 We are literally born of stardust.

 We soar through space on a big round spaceship bound to one of these gigantic, elemental forges.  Ours is a bittersweet story of a species who became aware of the incredible beauty of the cosmos we are a part of, only to realise the cost of this comprehension is to also be made aware of our own mortality and the fragile, brief nature of our existence.

In this story we are completely dependent on this planet we travel on, and the star it travels with, for our survival.  We belong to it.  We are literally MADE of it.

…but we are also utterly dependent on each other for our joy, our purpose, our sense of belonging.  We are alone, sailing through the deep, dark cold of space and dancing on the surface of this little orb in defiant, transient warmth.

In the grand scheme of things our lives may be the tiniest pin-pricks of light in a cosmos completely unaware of their existence, but collectively we write a grand, epic saga of innovation, discovery, adventure, exploration and survival.

But no matter how grand the overall story of humanity might seem we must never forget what while individual lives may be the briefest pin-pricks of light, to the holder of that light it is literally everything there is...

Our Weekend

 Picking you up in your jammies,

Your hair still wet.

You hug your Mumma,

Say goodbye to your pets.

 

A movie with popcorn,

Reading Asterix in bed.

Sending you off to sleep

With a kiss on your head.

 

Pancakes for breakfast,

A broken down car.

We laugh about weird stuff

And love who we are.

 

Minecraft and Mario,

Rock climbing indoors.

Painting water colours,

Quiet peace when we pause.

 

I love you my daughter,

The bright joy that you bring.

I love being your Bubba

More than anything.

 

It is not your fault,

But when our time runs out,

I take you back to your Mum’s

And my light just goes out.

Away

 

“Ready?’

“Ready!” comes the excited, whispered reply.

I fumble for matches in the warm dark.  The air smells of spices, wood and the sea.  It is filled with the far-off sounds of creaking ropes, splashing waves and the chatter of a thousand languages.

My match flares, then candlelight shines in my daughter’s wide eyes and illuminates a world reeking with mystery and adventure. With huge grins and her small hand clasped in mine we sneak onboard a ship that sails the Seas of the Universe at the speed of imagination (so much faster than boring old light…).

In a land looking suspiciously like a Minecraft Realm we build magnificent castles and dig for emeralds, fighting off zombies and running from skeletons – escaping their arrows with gleeful shouts and sailing on...

We find a place where dragons live with people in huge, deep caverns.  Flying on their backs we whoop with delighted fright as they soar and swoop through the sky, the wind chilling our faces and tearing at our hair.

In a fortress made of huge tree trunks and clay, in the middle of a desert kingdom, we feast on far-away foods and dance with nomads wrapped in their bright, desert cloaks as a sandstorm groans around the walls and rattles the big wooden shutters on the windows.

…and then we’re climbing the tallest tree of a vast jungle to watch rainbow birds fill the sky with noise and colour, joined by a troop of chittering monkeys who sit on our shoulders and steal things from our pockets.

Finally, after sailing through outer-space watching the gas of nebulae curl from our outstretched fingers we arrive, exhausted and happy, at a ramshackle cottage on dunes near the sea.  We curl up on the back porch in a nest of cushions and soft ancient blankets.  After sipping hot chocolate and coffee from chipped old mugs we close our eyes and drift with the sound of the waves.  My little girl falls asleep with her head on my shoulder, one small hand wrapped firmly around my index finger…

………………….

“Hey.  Time to go.” A kick to my foot wrenches me back into hard, electric light - the candlelight had been pushing back a darkness of an entirely different kind.  My daughter’s Mum jerks her head toward the bedroom door.  I carefully extract my shoulder from under my little girl’s head and gently unwrap her fingers from around mine.  With a final kiss to her forehead I fetch my shoes and head out the front door, into Reality.

The Real World is nothing like the one my daughter and I keep in our heads.  In the real world, people fill the seas with rubbish, burn down the jungles, blow up the desert fortresses and kill all the dancers inside.  Stupid fights happen over stupid things.  Diseases kill, pain really hurts and everything can feel hard, indifferent and alien.

Colourful people can be forced into gray, colourless lives; trudging head down on a treadmill year after year until, old and exhausted, they sit in Death’s waiting room watching telly and wondering what happened to their dreams.

It's a place where relationships break and little girls are swept up in events beyond their control, but which hurt them to their core nonetheless.   It grates and screeches around us with all the charm of a fat man flopping on a prostitute’s bed and saying “Come over ‘ere darlin’…”.

I know our world is imaginary.  I know we are supposed to embrace, face and deal with the real one and it is silly to think we can escape it for any length of time at all, but I yearn for ours still.  I know she does too.  She tells me sometimes in those rare, quiet times when it is just us.

So. 

We will endure this place of Reality like a student sitting through a boring lecture.  We will do our best.

...but all the while we’ll be staring out the windows, waiting for our next precious moment.

...and when it comes, we will run.

…straight for that warm, dim corner smelling of wood smoke and cinnamon and the Seven Seas of Adventure where, with her small hand clasped tightly in mine…

…we will light another candle.

From a Father to his Daughter

Dear Madeline,

When you were first born I was scared shitless.  I sat with you in the hospital room, alone, for an hour or more while they stitched your Mum up.  I wondered “What the hell have we done?”.

You were lying on my chest, very small, bundled in blankets.  You looked up and regarded me with huge, calm blue eyes that said “Don’t worry Daddy.  I know…”

It seems you did too, because over the next few months love for you grew inside me until it seemed to fill every available space.  That was totally unexpected.

I remember a life before you came along.  It had good bits in it for sure, but nothing can compare to the calming joy I have always felt just spending time with you, no matter what we happen to be doing. 

You barrel through my days like a little sunshine cannonball, warming everything you touch.

At night your snuffly breathing and small (but growing!) body curled in mine for warmth soothes fears and makes me smile as I sleep.

The things you give me may be intangible and hard to describe, but they are no less real for that.

But parenting seems to be a constant process of letting go – from the little things like dressing yourself or wiping your own bottom through to big things like letting you fight your own battles and find your own friends – so you can Become.

I am incredibly grateful this process takes place slowly, day by day.  If it had to happen all at once I don’t think I would be strong enough to do it.

We are on separate roads, you and I.  We must live our own lives.  This is right and good.  Our paths will meander along together – weaving toward and away from each other as we both find our way in the world.

But they will never be as close as they are now.  It may be right and good, but that does not mean it is easy.  The temptation to hold you close, protect you from everything and keep you with me forever is incredibly strong; but, like crushing a butterfly in your grip for fear it will fly away, would ultimately destroy the very thing I am seeking to preserve.

So, while we are here, in our quiet together space, let me tell you a secret…

Way down deep in my heart I have a room.  It is warm, cosy and dim.  It has a comfy old chair in it. 

The walls are lined with shelves and they all hold boxes, full of special, heartfelt memories.  I visit whenever I can to add new ones or just rummage through old ones, sitting happily in my comfy chair for hours sometimes.

One box looks like all the others (perhaps a little less dust), but I never visit without opening it at least once.  It is uniquely special, this old cardboard container.  Whenever I open the lid, what is inside spreads a magical, golden glow around the whole room.  It lights up my face and reflects in my eyes.  Why?

This is the place I store every memory I have of you.

The past is gone.  The only place it exists now is here in this box, and that makes it precious indeed.

Everything is in here.  Carrying you to the end of our street to watch the diggers before you could walk.  Dropping stones in the grate in the gutter.  Teaching you how to change batteries in your toys.  Bouncing on the trampoline.  Swinging you until we’re both dizzy.  Just little gems, but so lovely and so many!  I am a lucky man.

No matter how long our roads, and how far from each other they are at times, I will always, always have this small box of treasures tucked safely away – and that is a comfort as I go about the process of letting you live your life as the bouncy, gleeful, stubborn, kind, thoughtful, loving and fiercely independent young lady I know you to be.

One day (hopefully after a VERY long time) this old heart will cease to beat.  It happens to everyone and it is inevitable.  I don’t think it is fair but that is another story entirely.

Now, when those boxes fall away and the memories they contained float off into the ether – becoming no more than whispers to entertain spirits – your memories will burst forth with such a light my chest will glow, warm and gold.

Whoever is there – doctors, nurses, strangers – will wonder what is going on!  They will have no idea.

…but if they ever ask you, or I am lucky enough for you to be there holding my hand when it happens – you can just regard them with your huge, calm blue eyes and tell them

“Don’t worry, I know…”

All my love Sweetheart,

Daddy.

Daddy, please don't leave me...

"Daddy, please don't leave..."

They can be difficult words to hear sometimes - when your 4 year old is hanging from your leg like a pleading koala and you are running late for your train to work.  There's guilt and frustration mingled with a sprinkle of yearning...

Other times not so difficult - like at 3am last night after answering a call, pulling her doona up over her chilly body and doing the old 'hand on the back' routine until her breathing became slow and steady.  Thinking she was asleep I turned to walk out the door when a tiny, sleepy voice said those 4 little words.

Then, with time a-plenty, it was a pleasure to say "Sure, Sweetheart, I'll be right here." and climb in with her, snuggle up and doze for an hour or so while she slumbered contentedly in the crook of my arm. 

Another of those beautiful little gems I string on the thread of my life that make me happy to be a father.

My own father is dying.  He has been for some time, but has entered the final phases now.  He rarely eats more than soup and has wasted away to where I can circle my hand right around his arms and even legs (If I chose.  I choose not to.  That would be creepy.).

When we visit he just wants to hold your hand while you talk about the inanities of daily life.  He drifts in and out of the conversation, but never lets go.

When it is time to leave I can see in his eyes the words "Sonny, please don't leave...", but he never says it.  He just says "Goodbye Sonny.  Goodbye."

It's hard to go.  His nights are lonely.

I'm 50 years old, and as a grown-up I feel sad for my Dad, am confronted by mortality, feel for his suffering and can accept the only way past that suffering for him now is to die.  To move on to whatever it is we move on to.

But if I'm honest, inside me somewhere there is a little boy staring in dismay at the skeletal figure lying curled under a blanket and who sees there the shadow of his big, strong father; remembers his warm, work-thickened hands carrying him and who still feels the security of the big man's hug.

...and who can't help but plead in the darkness "Daddy, please don't leave..."