The Writers' Circle

Katrina walked slowly through the open meadows, contemplating the reward that awaited her when she finally reached her destination. She had been travelling for some days now, and was pleased that she had started this particular day before sunrise. By doing so she had made good progress before the sun reached it hottest.

'We never arrive,' she thought. 'Once we've reached our destination another appears on the horizon.' She held the thought for a moment, wondering why it was that we never seem to complete our journeys. People so often set off, knowing their destination, but get distracted or enticed by other things. Sometimes those things are important, but mostly they are just excuses to escape the journey that God has planned for us.

As she daydreamed, a butterfly floated alongside her. She watched its colourful display as it flitted to and fro'. 'Where are you going?' she whispered. The butterfly seemed to be listening, hovering in the air as if it were regarding the girl's question intently. She laughed to herself, thinking how silly it was to talk to such a creature. The question interested her though and, as she had no other companion, she pursued the thought. 

She wondered whether butterflies had any sense of time, or knew where they were going. People are so consumed with thinking about time that time ends up consuming them. Time to get up, time to go to work, time for dinner, time for this, time for that. Why is time so important? Why does time matter? She thought about the time it would take her to travel along the old pilgrim road to Rome and decided that it was fair compensation for the experience one has when making a journey, especially when the prize is so magnificent. 'So time does matter,' she smiled, having answered her own question, 'but how important it is to spend it wisely.'

Continuing her reverie, she thought about the little butterfly, wondering whether these colourful creatures knew they would live four very different lives - changing from egg to catapiller to chrysallis, before final transformation into the beautiful butterfly. Whilst the girl remembered something of the small creature's life process from the rudimentary teaching she had received at school, the reason why butterflies went through such a process eluded her. It would be a simple enough question perhaps for an expert in such matters, though unanswerable in her own mind. In her mind's eye, she tried to recall. The notion of the butterfly's life cycle troubled the girl. For most of her young life she had been taught to look for stability, anchoring herself against the firm foundations provided by her parents.Change had never been thought of as a concept to embrace; not, at least, in her family.

The butterfly floated for a moment longer, still listening, before making its own way across the open landscape. 'You are so beautiful,' she said out loud, half expecting the butterfly to hear her admiration and respond to her. The old priest in her village had told her that it was more important to be beautiful on the inside than the outside. The girl, herself, possessed great beauty, according to her parents. Her olive skin, dark eyes and long raven hair typified the appearance of many girls from her region, although she had never regarded herself as her parents had. Her inner beauty was at the fore of her thinking now that she understood the wisdom of the priest. Her father had explained many of the theories that the priest had presented to her. And so, now, she tried to live by his guiding words.

The terrain altered as the girl neared the edge of a small copse. The ground became interspersed with small rocks, but as the girl entered the shade of the trees she felt the softness of the early autumn mulch underfoot. And the feeling of solitude. She tried to think of why it was that solitude was such a good friend to her. It allowed her to think, unhindered, without the need to share her thoughts with anyone. But was she just making the best of something unnatural? People weren't meant to be on their own. Sometimes she would walk alone all day. Just dreaming, imagining a future that would give her fulfilment beyond those very dreams. 'The problem with dreams,' she thought, 'is that they are not real, they're just fantasies.' Then, as if to contradict herself, she thought, 'Dreams are our hope and faith in the future.' She confirmed the thought with a single nod of the head, convincing herself that dreams were indeed a view of the future. Although she wasn't generally the type of person to entertain dreams, and she'd never really had the passion or enthusiasm to realise them. 

The old priest had told her that you couldn't be fulfilled without having dreamed of what it is that will fulfil you. He maintained that unless you could visualise where you wanted your life to go, you would never get ther. He explained to the girl that we must create a mental blueprint of our lives in order to have any chance (although he didn't believe in chance) of reaching fulfilment. She didn't understand all that the old man told her, but she had always believed in him because she knew he was a wise man. Likewise, she regarded her father as a wise man, and he would often say that it is better to believe in order to understand than to understand in order to believe. 'That's the problem with this strange world we live in,' she thought. 'People lack faith: they lack faith in God, and faith in themselves, faith in the future. If only I could believe in myself and my dreams.' It was a bitter-sweet thought. The girl knew that her lack of faith was due to her reluctance to accept that someone, something more powerful, was at work in her life. She also knew, though, that God would never leave her, even when her faith was weak. It played on her mind constantly, the thought that there was a power beyond her comprehension that would continue to engage her regardless of her attempts to put up barriers. Belief in such a power was not the issue. It was her ability to put faith in a power that, since her father's passing, had shown her little comfort. 

Belief in herself was a different matter. Through the many traumas and trials in her young life she had become vulnerable, constantly battling with low self-esteem and bouts of depression. It was when she was at her lowest that she had visited the old priest for help. It was then, during those moments of calm, that she sensed God's presence and the reassuring warmth in her heart. The priest allowed her to disentangle her troubles, and his wisdom, that he claimed was from God, enabled him to lift the girl from the depths of despair to the heights of renewal. His healing words were powerful, and his discernment in recognising the deep-rooted cause of the girls' unhappiness was evidence of God's anointing upon his ministry. He was indeed a wise man. And she was a girl full of self-belief. 

There were many wise men in the village where the girl had spent her life. God had blessed Linio and wisdom had been a good provider for the village. When the harvest was abundant, it was the wise farmer who had retained two fifths of his grain in case of a poor harvest the following year. He did this each year, and each year he sold the two fifths of grain from the previous year together with the three fifths from the current harvest. For many years the wise farmer did this, and the village folk prayed each year for a good harvest. However, one year there was very little rain and the harvest was ruined by the scorching sun. But the wise farmer was still able to support his village with the two fifths from the last harvest. The village folk thanked the farmer for his wisdom and learnt that they should not take for granted that which they have not yet received. In a similar way the old priest had invested his time with the young folk, teaching, guiding and nurturing them so that they would adopt the values of living in community with, taking responsibility and caring for one another. His wise words had infused the lives of many people, either directly or indirectly. His parish extended virtually beyond the confines of Linio, because those who received his teaching had carried his wisdom far afield. He regarded it as his only legacy for future generations, that they should receive something of value in return for their faith.

The girl also regarded herself as fortunate, and felt rich with blessings. Her childhood had generally been a happy one, but for her parents separating when she was twelve. She hadn't expected it, and certainly didn't understand why it had happened. They had seemed happy together then, but were now so happy apart. She had lived with her mother in the small stone cottage that formerly belonged to her grandparents. It had been the family's intention to hand the property down to the eldest child, but as the girl was an only child and wanted to live nearer the city her mother was considering selling it now. It had served its purpose for two generations, but alas it would not survive to serve this generation.  Each Saturday the girl would walk the six kilometres to the next village to visit her father. He lived a modest existence, spending his long days in the confines of the monastery. Despite the distance, she nevertheless visited her father every week, and enjoyed the time they spent together. They both regarded it as family time, even though her mother rarely accompanied her now. Her father would talk for hours about practical arrangements for the girl as she grew up and received her independance. Matters of a spiritual nature were also a source of conversation, albeit hard for the young girl to understand many of the things her father shared with her about his own journey. It was during one of these visits that they had discussed the plans she had for her life, and what challenges lay ahead in the future. After receiving quite a eulogy from her father about the importance of having goals in her life, he then asked her quite directly where she was going.

'Oh, I'll probably get married and have children like mother did,' she told her father.

'When you think you know what you want, think again,' her father instructed. 'Your mind is only as strong as your heart. When your mind makes a decision it must be in agreement with your heart. Otherwise, your heart will eventually become disloyal to you.' The girl trusted her father and, like the priest, she regarded her father as a man filled with the wisdom of God. However, he had begun to speak a strange language - a cryptic language that confused the girl. She asked her father to explain what he meant, but he avoided any elaboration. He simply told her that when her mind was able to comprehend and her heart had a desire to know, only then would she seek and apply the wisdom he had imparted. Her visit that day had ended with a time of silence - quiet meditation - after which her father prayed with her that she might one day know what it is to achieve greatness.

*

The girl arrived at a clearing in the woods where a number of trees had become victims of the last winter' storms, lying peacefully as if they had simply fallen asleep during their watch. She walked through the open space, taking in the landscape. A voice soft as a whisper, yet filled with clarity, urged her to rest a while. It was as good a place as any to rest , and she was hungry anyway after the morning's walk. She found an old cyprus tree that had been felled and laid her jacket down to soften the seat. The large tree looked far too strong to have fallen in the winds, but then perhaps it was not firmly rooted. Removing the muslin parcel from her bag, she unwrapped it and took out the hard bread left over from breakfast. The oil she poured from the small glass bottle softened the texture of the bread and enriched the flavour. She began to eat her lunch and poured some sweet, red wine into a beaker. Enjoying the solitude that reminded her of her father, the girl felt at ease with how her journey had begun and looked forward eagerly to completing it. The butterfly settled on the trunk beside her, and she watched as it displayed its vivid colours. 

'Did I meet you earlier?' The girl enquired. 'If not, it was another butterfly just like you.'

A soft voice said, 'I am with you always. I am here to guide you.' 

The girl was astonished at hearing a response, wondering whether it was the heat or the wine that had affected her. Silence accompanied her as she continuing with her lunch. Soon, however, she felt compelled to respond and found herself speaking to the butterfly. 'I know where I'm going, and I know the way,' she said, with a note of uncertainty in her voice. 

'This is one of the many journeys you will make in your life. They might not all be as straightforward as this one,' the butterfly warned, taking flight again only to settle closer to the girl.

The girl looked around, aware that she was talking to a butterfly. There was nobody else there. She was alone, except for the small creature at her side. 'You are quite beautiful,' the girl remarked as she wondered whether she convinced herself that she had indeed been exposed to the heat of the midday sun for too long.

'I have many appearances,' the butterfly explained. 'Because some people have hearts as hard as stone and others have hearts filled with compassion, it is necessary for me to adapt so that they can truly see what the future holds. Those with hardened hearts need to find greater purpose. Otherwise, if they continue to allow their hearts to be like stone, their lives will be hard also, filled with sadness, discomfort and suffering. A heart filled with compassion, though, will yield a life of fulfilment. The seeds that you sow become the harvest that you reap. ' The butterfly's colourful display seemed to become more and more brilliant as it spoke.

The girl looked perplexed. She didn't understand the butterfly's riddles, and felt that the creature was making her appear stupid. She had heard, many times, the parable of the sower, from her father and the priest. She knew exactly what the butterfly meant. Who was he to be advising her anyway? She finished her lunch, without further conversation, and made ready to continue her journey. The butterfly stayed close, intermittently fluttering its colourful wings.

As she stood up the butterfly said to her, 'Listen to me whenever I speak and I will show you your destiny.' The girl looked at the butterfly again, although her gaze seemed to pass straight through and beyond into the distance. The creature continued. 'Knowing your destination is easy. It's decided by your mind. Knowing your destiny is much harder. It's your hearts desire, your dream.' Then the butterfly took flight, and the girl's eyes followed it as it disappeared through the remaining upright trees into the distance. She packed her bag and headed for the pathway at the other side of the clearing, looking around to find that the butterfly was still with her, following at a distance. She smiled and carried on walking. 

By the time the girl reached the next town dusk was falling. It had been a long, hot day and her body was feeling the discomfort of walking so far. She'd been to this town once before, many years ago, with her father. That was when he used to take her with him on business trips. Before he entered the monastic order, he had been a travelling salesman, working for a large retail supplier. He didn't enjoy the work, but it did provide a modest income for his family. Now, though, it was the girl who was the provider, selling bread in the local markets that she and her mother baked fresh each day. The town was small, with just a handful of streets organised haphazardly, but convening at the small eighteenth-century church. It was clear that the town had grown in recent years, with the combination of old and new architecture blending together uneasily. There was a row of tall, narrow houses flanking the main street, and a small parade of shops in the plaza with the towns' only café. 

The guesthouse that she stayed in with her father still looked the same, peering nervously from behind the monument in the plaza. Approaching she recognised the tall narrow building, its shabby facade more weathered than before and looking quite pitiful. Nevertheless, the memories that this place held for her were more important than the physical structure. At the desk sat an elderley woman who the girl did not recognie. Perhaps there had been a change of ownership since she last visited. Discovering that there was one small room still available, the girl paid the old woman for her stay and made her way through the parlour to the back stairs that would formerley have been used to access the staff quarters. Now, it seemed, there were no staff and the quarters were used for paying guests. 

As she reached the top floor of the unkempt buiding, she found that the room was clean and tidy although there was no more than walking space between the door and the bed. That didn't matter though. She planned to spend a few days recovering her strength before continuing, although she knew that her destination was eager to greet her. Now, rest was all she needed and as she lay on the bed her body relaxed to the point of lifelessness and her mind wandered, recalling the strange episodes of the day. She considered once more the journey she was making - a journey to commemorate her father's life - and thought about the conversations with the beautiful butterfly. Her eyes grew heavy and, as they closed, she drifted unhurriedly into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was the sort of sleep that only follows exhaustion.