When I was a child, I had an incredible capacity for caring for other living things. They could be anything. I was their provider, protector, teacher, and they were there for me to care for. I cared for the babies I met, the elderly, baby toads, dragonflies, frogs, dogs, cats, turtles and even snakes.
I remember sitting in Heaven, (which for me it was). Gentle hills with wild strawberries, and daisies grew upon every inch, right up to the busy pond behind my grandparents’ house. I would choose a place to sit among the beauty and examine from every angle the foliage, the insects, and the life stages of both. Tasting the never-more-perfect strawberries was the reward for all the work of a scientist. I was six years old and kept a journal in my head.
It was there I met a wounded butterfly. She was a small Monarch, with beautiful colors and a perfect face. At least I assumed she was she, by her beautiful nature. A lower wing on her body had a break in it, like a bent book page. I could see she was concerned and confused, and hurt, knowing she couldn’t fly. My Mother had told me you weren’t even supposed to touch their wings, or they would lose their ability to fly. If a butterfly can’t fly, it won’t be able to live, to do what butterflies need to do to survive.
