Chasing Butterflies

Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder. J. Richard Lessor, author, social worker (often attributed to Henry David Thoreau)

There I am in my five-year-old glory, having already captured my butterflies. In fact, they were impaled on sticks as I danced in my yellow, oversized tutu. Oh, how I danced

Only, I wasn’t very good. I knew this fact early in my dancing career. My sister (and eventually my nieces) had received all the dancing talent in the family. But my dancing endeavors made my mother very happy. The costumes, the tutus, the ballet slippers, the photos. And the hairdos! Preparing for a performance included hours of clutching a globe of Dippity-Do while my mother rolled my hair into a dozen pink, spongy rollers. I loved the fuss my mother made over me. But I disliked the performances, the crowd applauding or not. I danced in my own little world.

Funny though—even more than the dancing experience, I vividly remember the attendance card that was stamped with a star each time I arrived on time for practice at the dance studio (a real accomplishment in our household!) I would tuck away this record of success like a treasurer into my dance bag.

As I look back, I realize that I’ve never excelled in performance. I don’t like public speaking (although I’ve figured out how to do it). I can’t carry a tune (although it doesn’t matter when I’m singing with my husband on road trips. Thank God for the 70s and 80s stations.) I was in plays and musicals in school, but what I loved most about the experience was the camaraderie of being a cast member. I am glad others find joy in performing because I love being an audience member of just about any kind of artful performance.

Like so many of us, I, too, have chased happiness where the destination seemed most important. The ability to put a star next to some accomplishment seemed important in those pursuits. I won’t discount the perseverance required in setting and accomplishing a goal. It’s an important life skill and comes with a momentary lift and maybe even progress. How else would anything get done? But it’s not joy.

The joy was in the dancing, not the performance, not the attendance star. Just the dancing—the process of practicing, of moving, of lifting imperfection into the air and finding improvement each time. The freedom of being in my own little world.

Butterflies are elusive and unpredictable, finding delight in the flitting journey. The writing life is such a journey and a source of joy for me. The perfect word choice that matches a lyrical cadence, terse dialogue that reveals character, a description that sets the tone for an entire scene. These craft moments in the writing life are where the butterflies land for me, if only for a second, before winging on. No gold star, just the evidence of a lovely dance.

When do the butterflies land on your shoulder?