Once upon a time there was a Marie in our group. Young with shiny dark hair falling to her shoulders. A lilting voice, revealing roots in a maritime island. A cheerful, kind soul who seemed to extract as much pleasure from the group as she got from exercising her craft.
And then she was gone. Yes, there was warning, some suggestions of using technology to keep in touch, but none came to pass.
I wonder at her whereabouts now. Does she think of us in our old room? What would she think of this new room, grand but impractical for the art of writing and reading.
The remaining members of our group still persevere, working our magic together – separately, but spiritually briefly touching. Close for a few moments, gelling into a cohesive effort. Becoming satisfyingly one before drifting apart again, loosing each other for the days in between.
Like a monarch butterfly we drift back together, maintaining the cycle of gathering, creating and scattering again, knowing the cycle will repeat. Just not with the butterfly of Marie.
How many other butterflies are scattered across the continent, some part of them thinking, “It’s 10 o’clock on Friday, I wonder if the group still meets?”
Is our group actually so much larger than the faces we see around the table? Is the power of creation so much more extensive than what we physically acknowledge each week? Just how many butterflies still fly, or have broken wings, we will never know.
FreeFall Friday February 24,2017