The mere thought—a museum facility for butterflies?—tickles the imagination. Especially so in the depths of January, the dark season of grudging light, offering back mere seconds daily toward the far-off abundance of spring.
But here it is, just blocks from my home, tucked in among the boundless trees, a wintry oasis of heat and humidity and the seemingly aimless flapping of wings, their bearers zigging and zagging through the weighty air, all sublime brilliance and self-possession, a purity of jazz in flight, never missing a beat…
***
![](https://i2.wp.com/andrewhidas.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Black-and-White-Alight-1-e1578609706276.jpg?resize=495%2C640)
I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. —Chuang Tzu
***
![](https://i1.wp.com/andrewhidas.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Striped-Dotted-and-Spackled.jpg?resize=613%2C640)
Love is like a butterfly: It goes where it pleases and pleases wherever it goes.—Anonymous
***
![](https://i0.wp.com/andrewhidas.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Black-Bat.jpg?resize=556%2C640)
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. —Muhammad Ali
***
![](https://i2.wp.com/andrewhidas.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Feeding-Time-e1578618300904.jpg?resize=480%2C639)
As my love gave chase to a butterfly/ So did I give chase to love/ Now here ...
Recent Comments