The Butterfly and the Moth.
Looking for the silver lining
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Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: South Florida
Posts: 243
The Butterfly and the Moth.
Hi to all,
Just wanted to share this with you…This is a fable by Geoffrey Grosshan called the Butterfly and the Moth. I have always had an affinity to this fable, but never knew why. The other day it was finally clear to me that the reason is that the butterfly and the moth are like the codie and the addict. The thinking of both the moth and butterfly seems similar…Both are so stuck in contaminated thinking that neither are free even though they have the capacity to be if they just stopped for a minute. I found it to be profound…
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The Butterfly and the Moth
Once a butterfly fell in love with a moth. The butterfly was like the coming of spring. April played in its wings, and their soft flutter made the air glow. When it lighted a moment on a blade of grass or a twig, that place, however small, suddenly hosted a concert of rainbows.
The moth had none of this magic. It faltered through life as if its wings were an accident. And this accident the moth took as a palpable affront. It was a low trick of nature that it found itself with ungainly wings, quite apart from the added insult of its drab, puffy bulk.
Nor was the moth merely awkward physically. It seemed to be getting in its own way all the time emotionally as well. Who else had to endure the mortifications it did every day, the moth groaned? Life was nothing more than a long bad joke, and the moth was the constant butt of it. The whole exercise appeared designed solely to deny the moth any dignity it might aim for.
The butterfly recognized the moth’s pained discontent, but loved it all the more for that. Perhaps the moth’s bitterness at having been slighted by life was the very thing that proved irresistible.
Even when the moth’s frustrations caused it to turn on the butterfly, as it blaming it for a magnificence that put the moth itself in a worse light by comparison, the butterfly’s love never wavered. At such times, it would fold close its splendor to avoid upsetting the moth any more or quiet the lilting grace of its flight.
It wasn’t that the moth meant to hurt the butterfly. And it wasn’t that the butterfly didn’t feel hurt, sometimes terribly hurt. The moth saw the pain it caused but couldn’t help itself. While the butterfly saw how cruelly love was repaid but also couldn’t help itself.
Day after day, the moth blundered from one bush to another, cursing its lot, while the butterfly followed lovingly behind, refusing to use its own exquisite wings to fly away.
Just wanted to share this with you…This is a fable by Geoffrey Grosshan called the Butterfly and the Moth. I have always had an affinity to this fable, but never knew why. The other day it was finally clear to me that the reason is that the butterfly and the moth are like the codie and the addict. The thinking of both the moth and butterfly seems similar…Both are so stuck in contaminated thinking that neither are free even though they have the capacity to be if they just stopped for a minute. I found it to be profound…
__________________________________________________ _____________
The Butterfly and the Moth
Once a butterfly fell in love with a moth. The butterfly was like the coming of spring. April played in its wings, and their soft flutter made the air glow. When it lighted a moment on a blade of grass or a twig, that place, however small, suddenly hosted a concert of rainbows.
The moth had none of this magic. It faltered through life as if its wings were an accident. And this accident the moth took as a palpable affront. It was a low trick of nature that it found itself with ungainly wings, quite apart from the added insult of its drab, puffy bulk.
Nor was the moth merely awkward physically. It seemed to be getting in its own way all the time emotionally as well. Who else had to endure the mortifications it did every day, the moth groaned? Life was nothing more than a long bad joke, and the moth was the constant butt of it. The whole exercise appeared designed solely to deny the moth any dignity it might aim for.
The butterfly recognized the moth’s pained discontent, but loved it all the more for that. Perhaps the moth’s bitterness at having been slighted by life was the very thing that proved irresistible.
Even when the moth’s frustrations caused it to turn on the butterfly, as it blaming it for a magnificence that put the moth itself in a worse light by comparison, the butterfly’s love never wavered. At such times, it would fold close its splendor to avoid upsetting the moth any more or quiet the lilting grace of its flight.
It wasn’t that the moth meant to hurt the butterfly. And it wasn’t that the butterfly didn’t feel hurt, sometimes terribly hurt. The moth saw the pain it caused but couldn’t help itself. While the butterfly saw how cruelly love was repaid but also couldn’t help itself.
Day after day, the moth blundered from one bush to another, cursing its lot, while the butterfly followed lovingly behind, refusing to use its own exquisite wings to fly away.
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