Butterfly Paragraph Submission, Written By Serena
by Serena I. Volpi
Come on home, just ain’t fair
Name of rock’n’roll, where love dies
Couldn’t find a soul, tell it like it is
Deep down inside, drunken butterfly
I love you, I love you, I love you… what’s your name?
(Sonic Youth, Drunken Butterfly)
“And what is this?” said the doctor pointing at my neck. She went on without waiting for an answer: “It’s a nodule.” So that was the reason of all that flapping and fluttering in my throat: I didn’t know a butterfly was living in there. Surprise and amazement at the discovery that she was there and she was me. Maybe the doc was a magician; maybe she could make things appear just mentioning them, maybe… Since that moment, one year and a half ago, I have tried to get in touch with that butterfly I knew nothing of. I discovered she is fragile and easily afflicted by influences from the outside, but she is also a brave warrior. I admire her, she is a constant example for me, so fragile and so strong at the same time, so delicate and yet willing to live and fly. I thought the nodule was the problem. How I was wrong! That part of the butterfly is fighting the greatest battle for both of us: antibodies, my personal army against her, against myself are trying to silence her, but she doesn’t give in. In my mind, the nodule meant abnormality: I was surprised it was exactly that part of the butterfly that indeed works trying to save the integrity of our lives. So, besides teaching me the real essence of strength in kindness, of perseverance in non-violence, she has also challenged my preconceptions about normality and normativity, proving that my vision was quite narrow. My butterfly flaps her wings and flutters even harder when I’m worried or anxious, she is the untameable non-violent warrior: she doesn’t destroy, she doesn’t fight against, but transforms destruction and death in life and flight and kindness. When I’m sad because the hormone replacement hasn’t worked like I thought it would or the antibodies are high though the homeopathic remedies try to keep them at bait, she flaps her wings once more and I find a connection with myself again. On that moment I know which path I have to follow, so I pull myself together, smile at my face in the mirror and flap my own wings as the butterfly has taught me to. You are my butterfly, my non-violent warrior, my friend, my angel, and my teacher. I love you, my drunken butterfly; you – like me – are drunk of life. I love you, I love you, I love you… what’s your name?
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