little loves from the universe
I spent this morning dodging intermittent rainfalls as I weeded the front of the historic farmhouse at the writers’ colony where I (still, temporarily) work. It was a calming chore; the sky slightly cloudy, the temperature hovering around a cool 75 degrees, an inspiring podcast drifting into one ear so I could still hear the world around me out the other. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about life, about purpose, about what’s next. It’s easy for me to get caught up in my head these days.
But just then, a writer approached from the brick sidewalk, her hands cupped. “I just have to share with you what I found on my walk,” she said, opening up her hands to reveal a butterfly in her palm. It had apparently been struck by a car or come upon some natural cause of death, yet it was perfectly preserved. It was really quite striking. Next to it lay a bright blue feather. “I don’t typically collect these sorts of things, but something about them just caught my eye,” she said.
I smiled, because I always collect these sorts of things. I have since I was a child, picking up rogue craft supplies on the Walmart floor. I have collections of rocks and stones and feathers and seashells, dried flower buds and other such trinkets. I line them up in a shadowbox my mom gave me this past Christmas. And while I can’t quite remember what each one meant in the moment, knowing they spoke to me at one time or another brings me a sort of peace, a connection to the natural world.
“They make a nice pair,” I noted, picking up on a similar shade of blue in both the wings and the feathers. She proceeded to tell me about her faith in Catholicism, and her daily prayers to the Virgin Mary, who has been aiding her in her writing process and is typically associated with the color. A tiny shiver went up my arms.
I love this kind of stuff. And I love when other people love it, too.
The writer just kept on talking. We’d spoken a few times, very briefly, over the course of her two week stay, but this was the first in-depth conversation we’d had. She told me that she’d been struggling with her memoir, about the murder of her sister, which had taken place just three years after the death of another one of her sisters. Butterflies, she said, are of course a symbol of rebirth and transformation. And soon after the death of her second sister, a floral bush that had been gifted to her in the wake of her first sister’s passing had been covered in tiny, perfect butterflies. That vision had stuck with her and stood to influence the likely title of her book. Finding this butterfly had lit a new fire within her.
The conversation began to wrap, and she apologized for taking up my time and thanked me for listening. She didn’t have to thank me, I said, thanking her for sharing it with me, and internally thanking the world for bringing this interaction to my morning, reminding me of miracles and signs and symbols – the sorts of things we don’t always notice when we’re so caught up in our heads.
As she walked away, a cardinal flew to the roof of the farmhouse and started chirping incessantly. I looked up and silently said Hello. It’s the same cardinal I’ve seen every day for the last two weeks (or at least I choose to believe it’s the same one, because I never really noticed cardinals here before). Cardinals, you may know, are said to be loved ones passed on, watching over. And two weeks ago, my grandpa passed away. He loved birds. While I don’t know if he knew I would be needing guidance and support in this time of transition, I’ve felt like he’s been visiting me, even if for just a short time each day, reminding me that someone’s watching, listening, guiding. That something greater is at play here.
It occurred to me that in this moment, that cardinal could also be this writer’s sister. It could be my boss’s husband. It could be someone who passed away a long, long time ago. Or it could, very simply, just be a bird. But I think that so long as we choose to embrace these little loves, these little gifts, from the universe, it never will be “just” anything.