Sunday Scribblings: Wings
Damp, sticky, fragile, as I try to unfold them. Untried, and with no quality-control stamp to say ‘Yes, they will hold you’, I still have no option once I’ve shed my cocoon, once I’ve struggled free of the hard binding in which I have rested, no option but to shake those wings, shake them and allow them to be caught by the air; shake them, allow the breeze to catch them, to catch me, and to fly.
These wings are the object of the struggle, the object of the time within, the goal towards which I have been striving, for which I have yearned. With them, I have become at last the Me I was destined to become – a creature of wild nature, unbound and free. My pleasure is in the sighs that people pass as I flit by. ‘Butterfly’, they might say, ‘the first of the year’. I know there are people whose souls lift at the sight of me. That is why I take such joy in my dance. That is part of why I allow a rising draft to carry me in a spiral of delight. My wings give wings to others. My beauty is not something I can see, but it is given to me in the shining eyes of those who watch me. My wings are my delight, as much as they are yours.