"A butterfly comes and stays on a leaf-
a leaf much warmed by the sun-
ans shuts his wings.
In a minute he opens them, shuts them again,
half wheels round, and by and by-
just when he chooses and not before-floats away.
The flowers open, and remain open for hours, to the sun.
Hastelessness is the only word one can make up to describe it;
there is much rest, but no haste.
Each moment is so full of life
that it seems so long
and so sufficient in itself."
~Richard Jeffries

Last week…I swear it…I saw a butterfly flying around in our backyard. It swooped near the side porch and then flitted away into the marvelous March sunshine. I shook my head in wonderment. Where did it come from? How had it come to such fullness with winter days so recently in the past? My husband didn't really believe my sighting. And then, some minutes later, as we were beginning an walk on our block, a butterfly-was it the same one?- flew right across our path. We looked at one another and laughed at this curious sight so early in the year.

This butterfly seemed to be flying as fast as it could. Perhaps such movement was necessary given the chill that still existed in the air. But soon we will instead see butterflies doing the languid hastelessness described in this poem. On the purple flowers that bloom in our garden to attract these lovely insects, we will have the seasonal opportunity to learn from the butterfly. If we can be quiet enough, if we can keep our minds from racing to the next thing we are 'supposed' to be doing, if we can keep our limbs from twitching with constant activity, we, too, can learn hastelessness. I have a sense there is much to be gleaned from this non-activity. Feeling the full force of the sun on our bodies, we might be lured into a creative moment of dreaming something beautiful. We might learn how to slow our breathing to a place of prayer. We might even allow our eyes to see as the butterfly sees….up close and personal. If nothing else, we might simply bring our blood pressure to a lower reading which is always a good thing.

Living into a recognition of the fullness of life in each moment is also a gift. Instead of experiencing the moment as just the step to the next and the next doesn't allow us to recognize the blessing of each breath, each heartbeat which we do not initiate, they happen because we are alive. The sufficiency of each moment eludes us: this moment is enough to keep me going, to keep me living.

I am preaching to myself here, I know. I have just decided to take a few days off to recharge my batteries before heading into the busy-ness of Holy Week and I am finding it difficult to just be in the moment. My mind is jumping around from thought to thought, detail to detail.  I keep remembering 'what I've forgotten to do'. Ever have days like that? 

Perhaps if I had wings, beautifully colored wings, I could flap them in a quiet, easy rhythm until my mind slowed down to a calmer pace.  Then I could sit as long as I wanted gently flapping and breathing, in and out, in and out, until hastelessness set in. Finally I could stay in one place as long as need be until my spirit could catch up with my flying body. 

It is a wonderful thing to imagine. I hope it is even possible without wings. I'm going to give it a try until I come into the sufficiency of this moment. Wish me luck!