🦋Poem: Held, Even Then aka The Injured Butterfly Still Flies

Field Note: Held, Even Then
(aka The Butterfly Still Flies)

Today I walked the woodland trail
with my loyal boy, my Shepherd mix.

We moved through the woods first—
shade, quiet, the soft language of leaves—
and then I took the long way back
along the grassy edge of the road,
slowly, without urgency.

I gathered as I went.

What looked like wild aster.
Then a curled fern frond.
Then something blue,
something purple,
something yellow.

Not named—just noticed.

There is so much I don’t know.
There is so much others don’t know.

When I came home, I placed them
in a small glass vase
with sage, rosemary, mint, lavender, thyme,
and a little honeysuckle—
herbs I had picked earlier for a friend’s visit,
which was its own small joy.

The bouquet felt like a continuation.
Not an arrangement—
a returning.

Life is being very good to me.
I feel it.
And I receive it with a grateful heart.

Know this—
I am present.
I am witnessing.
I am appreciative.

Because there were years
when I tried very hard
and grew very tired.
When I was worn and hurt
and felt alone in ways
that are difficult to explain.

My wings were clipped,
then clipped,
then clipped some more
until I trembled.

And still—

Something was there.
Something is here.

On the trail.
In the water and waves.
On the beach.
In the sky.

Holding me
so I did not go under.

I did not always feel it.
I did not always know how to receive it.

But I was held.

Even when I did not know
how to hold myself.
Even when there was no one
to hold me.

I floated in the waters of the sea.
I floated in the waters of the sound.

Looking through the blue
for something much bigger
to touch.

I feel it now
in small, undeniable ways.

A butterfly with a broken-off wing—
still flying.

Still reaching flowers.
Still finding nectar.
Still participating
in the quiet work of the world.

This is the third one I’ve seen in three years.

My garden.
The trail.
And on the trail again.

I understand.

Damage does not end the movement.
Injury does not cancel purpose.
What is imperfect
still belongs.

Still contributes.
Still lives.

There is an ancient knowing in this—
like the low hum of bowls and bells,
like waves crashing on the beaches

repeatedly
until they are understood.

Today, I heard it.
Today, I felt it.

And in this small, fluted, glass vase of gathered things,
I offer it back—

a quiet honoring
of the care that carried me
before I knew how to name it.

I was always held.

Even then.

Even now.

Forever and for always.

What I come from holds me.

I am forever hers.

Namaste.