Butterflies in Bear Canyon
Some days time just runs away from us and leaves us grasping at unfulfilling false starts, days without rhythm, without form or conclusion. I had had one of those days, despite starting with a solid walk early in the morning. But it had turned into a day scattered with distractions, interruptions from the person from Porterville, anathema to concentration. So without much done I went for another short hike in the early evening to settle my thoughts–when I came upon this photographic metaphor for the day–butterflies in Bear Canyon, now flitting above a small reflecting pool, pensively perching again on the path, rippling and disquieted by my interruption. I sat and watched as the same waves ensued for a jogger, for a man and dog, for the long-legged woman with Achilles’ limp. They may have thought me odd, sitting cross-legged and watching butterflies, but they did not pause to see. They are as Nietzsche once wrote of philosophers–”sweating like beasts, clambering toward their Archimedean summits, they fail to realize that there are beautiful views to be had along the way.” That is too often true of me as well: More often than not, my hikes, my days and my life lack having butterflies in Bear Canyon.
(photo credit: FEC)
