By: Dennis Bates
One of the really great things about writing a blog is that you can talk to yourself and nobody thinks you’re crazy. Well, nobody thinks you’re any crazier than they already think you are, and your mileage may vary. Also, past performance is no promise or indicator of future profit. You investment counselors can relate to that one. Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m talking to myself. Sorry.
You can also talk about pretty much anything you want to and you can use phrases like “pretty much” which some purists would argue with. Of course, they’d argue about ending a sentence with a preposition too, since technically a preposition shows a relationship between itself and another word in the phrase or sentence. However, that is the kind of tediousness up with I shall not put. Even though there is some question about whether Sir Winston Churchill ever actually said that, he could have, and should have.
The long and the short of it is that I find myself just about as interesting as I find anyone else these days, so I write a blog to validate that interest and myself. Granted, I won’t be nearly as interesting once the elections are over (until the next ones), but for now all I have to do to find myself utterly fascinating is tune into one of the parade of talking heads pontificating about something that even they must find boring and a bit pedantic.
I won’t go there. Wouldn’t be prudent at this time.
So, today I chose to talk about butterflies and love stories because I can, if for no other reason. Also, I chose butterflies because they are mostly gone for the season and remain only as a memory of hotter and steamier days. Come to think about it, at my age that description applies to my personal love stories quite accurately too. The only real difference is that the butterflies will come back again next spring.
But, I digress and exaggerate.
Butterflies have always fascinated me. And, yes, I like show tunes also. There’s nothing wrong with that, and you shouldn’t overanalyze it. You probably will, but you shouldn’t. Back to butterflies. I love butterflies because they are generally so bright and beautiful. When you see a Tiger Swallowtail or a Monarch, you just have to stop and watch it. You can’t help it. They almost command your attention. And butterflies go where they want to, flitting on the breeze from one beautiful flower to another.
You have to be just a little envious of that. Wouldn’t life be great if you were naturally colorful in a beautiful way and spent your days being admired as you glided from rose to rose with an occasional visit to a Day Lily or two? Butterflies don’t have economic problems; they don’t have wars; and they don’t have politics, just warm breezes and beauty surrounding them everywhere they land. Or they don’t land; they move on.
A good love story is like that to me. I want it to take me places people don’t always go or take the time to notice. I want it to show me roses, lilies, even a zinnia or two. I want it to glide over the events in the story like a butterfly soars on warm summer breezes: free, gentle and resting on the dew covered petal of pink or red when it finally lands. There can be sadness and joy, humor and seriousness, but in the end I want to feel better for watching it fly.
If I can write like that, even in small snatches or partial phrases here and there, my time has been well spent. And, as my good friend says, I feel better for the experience.