There is a Little Bird, who sits at the bottom of an expertly manicured lawn. She sits beneath a rosemary bush and nibbles at the new growth.
Once a day, in the golden hour, a butterfly visits. The butterfly brings whatever it can. Some days it brings stories from distant lands. Somedays it brings objects, like sea-glass or blue-berries. When times are tough and the weather is cold, the butterfly simply brings it’s body-heat.
Today the butterfly brings a story.
“This one must be told while strolling, little bird.”
“Let’s walk along the beach,” the little bird suggests.
“It’s a short one, told slowly,” the butterfly picks a stone.
The little bird waits, her eyes curious.
“In the middle of a wheat-field, not far from this garden,”
The little bird always loved when the story was close to home.
“there stands a scare-crow. Proud and haggard.”
The butterfly flips the stone over, discarding it lightly. It wasn’t sea-glass.
“There’s nothing unusual, no trick. That is where he is meant to be. He will always be,” the Butterly continued.
The little bird wondered why the butterfly always talked about patience.
“One day, as the farmer harvested wheat, the scare-crow was knocked over. This wasn’t the first time.”
Silence from the butterfly.
“The scare-crow knew it wouldn’t be the last. He was grateful when the farmer picked him up.”
The butterfly looked at the little bird. Observing her.
The little bird gazed back. “What happened next?”
“Nothing, my dear, little bird.”
The little bird began to speak but the butterfly explained.
“The scare-crow continued to stand there. He still scares crows in the field now.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Do you want to visit the scare-crow?”, the butterfly asked.
A wheat-field as far as the horizon. The farmer on his tractor, harvesting in front of them. The scare-crow standing in the middle.
“You see, he will always be there. As long as the farmer keeps picking him up.”
As far as the little bird could tell, it was about love. The little bird didn’t understand yet. Not understanding love was what the butterfly always talked about. He said ‘It’s not something you understand, it’s something you feel and through feeling, know.’
The little bird thought that the butterfly didn’t understand this. It gave her comfort to know she wasn’t alone in ‘not understanding’.