The butterfly’s movement is deceiving  

It meanders, flaps and flutters

Lifting, rising, dropping, falling

Up

Down

Erratic!

 

But with purpose

 

With deep wisdom

It finds its way to the milkweed every June, without fail

 

How does the butterfly know where to go?

That ancestral compass that tells it

Summer: North

Winter: South

Where does it come from?

 

The only relics of knowledge

that made their way down my genealogical line are

Fight or Flight

Otherwise known as anxiety

No clear direction, no certainty, no destination

Just: Run! (Where?)

Swing, kick, scream! (Now?)

For your life!

 

My movements are deceiving, too

I sit still and tranquil and quiet

I walk mechanically

Routine mechanically

I say concrete words like

“Yes” and “No”

Act and speak with conviction

But I’ve never been sure of a damn thing in my life