I hear the roar of the ocean as it pours over the tops of
the trees in the butterfly grove as I listen intently to the hummingbird clicks
and the scrub jay calls . . . I would walk silently to obscure my presence but
that is difficult to do on a sandy path hardened by the footsteps of the many
who come to stop and feel this place, a small stand of trees where the Monarch
butterflies have sought winter sanctuary for centuries . . .
There are no butterflies here today . . . they are long gone
northward in their four-generations a year journey . . . the first generation
commencing the migration and the last generation, those with the longest
lifespans, tasked with finding their way back to their winter home, one they
have never seen and that only their tiny hearts ‘know’ exists.
Last fall, I was among them as I arrived at the grove in
November, something that was randomly planned yet somehow meaningfully concluded
with an arrival on the day I turned sixty.
Did I feel some generational pull
to return this place and to cling to the mild California winter along with them? And have I come here seeking sanctuary . . . or
regeneration . . . or both?
I am feeling the call of the North again and I am wondering
if I am part of the Monarchs’ journey too . . . with my northerly journey whose
lapsed departure somehow balances the southern flow of their arrival? I did not plan this balancing act, though
something about it feels true . . .
Sometimes life is just that . . . to and fro . . . to and fro
. . . to and fro . . . in some personal
ancient pattern that we inherently ‘know’ exists . . . our hearts silently pulling
us along to our destinies.
