The mushrooms, the fungus which grows in the most unlikely of places. They grow upwards and outwards, sideways and downwards, fearless of their environment because they are humble but steady and sure of themselves. They don’t require thorns like the bramble bush, they don’t require the hard shell of the snail to shield their soft interior, they just are. They are as they are, raw life. They see potential for comfort in the most obscure of locations. Tender, they are the only life form which you can remove a part of and not damage the flow of it’s life, just the same as before. Without question, without faltering. You take no life by picking a mushroom, save your own if you pick the wrong ones. As the mushroom, we can endure through tenderness, as the forager we can endure through prowess and finesse.
The feathers fall from birds worldwide, but why do they shed them? It’s a mystery we’ll never truly solve, as humans. But the birds, they know but do they care? I’d say not. For the birds don’t seek such complexity as explanation. They are as they are and as they are, they are beautiful. Even the common pigeon brings wisdom aplenty.
What of the lessons the feathers bring? Of all shapes and sizes, of all hues of rainbow, they know not themselves. They drift ever present upon the winds as they blow. All shapes and sizes, each with a purpose. A purpose unknown ‘cept in vagueness of flight. Be they beautiful or decrepit, they hold purpose still, the purpose of flight and the purpose of will. Even once shed, they drift to the distance – to further far winds. So what of the lessons and learning they bring? Feathers of birds show surrender, beauty within.
And what then of the butterfly? A common story told, how one so soft and tender goes through the tough surrender, comes into the light with power and splendour. Our friends of beauty of love, divine. The butterfly shows us it’s all about time. Rough with the smooth, pain all bled out. In time we’ll come one to splendour again.
And so in this story we know all to well, what does the butterfly do after it’s shell? It takes to the wind, guided by self. The self in the source, bittersweet but in health. Maybe she sheds a tear for who she once was or maybe she soldiers on without thought. Maybe an angel, maybe a hearse… What’s left to experience she’s yet to all know. But what she holds dear of what she’s become is that now she’s the run of the ground and the sun. When freedom is found through struggle and strife, beauty is born in love not in fight.
Be like the mushroom, determined and tender. Be like the feather, floating; surrender. Be like the butterfly, the diamond of the sky.
Live, love and play.