Where Do We Come From
“Grandma,” my spirited, nearly three-year-old granddaughter exclaimed, “swing me higher!” Naturally, I happily complied with her request, just as I did with all her other simple wishes. After all, she was a delight and the source of immeasurable joy in my life.
On that particular day, she was visiting me all by herself, as was her custom, dictating every minute and hour with her boundless enthusiasm. Upon entering my home, she would eagerly unveil her plans for our entire day, often exclaiming, “Aren’t you just so excited that we are going to spend the whole day having adventures together, Grandma?” Indeed, those precious moments she referred to as “adventures” etched themselves deeply into my heart, becoming my cherished treasures.
We found ourselves at a quaint little park near my house, with only four swings, two slides, and a smattering of odds and ends. We occupied one of the two petite swings where you had to gently lift your child and slide their tiny feet in first. A charming little boy swayed to and fro on the swing next to ours.
At one point, he greeted her with a friendly “Hi.” In response, she gazed directly into his eyes and said, “Hi, I am called Amy!” It caught me off guard.
“How peculiar,” I pondered, “how peculiar that she said, ‘I am called.’ I’ve never heard anyone describe themselves that way.” A moment later, it struck me. She was absolutely correct in saying she was called. She had not fully identified herself as a person yet. Like the rest of us who entered this world, she had a name, but unlike most of us, she was acutely aware that she was being called Amy.
In that very instant, I began to wonder who she was—and who we all are. I suspected that, at that moment, she might still remember who she was and where she came from, beyond the person who answered to the name Amy.
A Soul
I wonder if we are all—
a Soul.
And if we gather
at the place where we originated—
in the stillness between lives,
after each ending…
And when we are ready
to leave our ethereal consciousness,
perhaps we choose…
or perhaps we are chosen,
to make the journey again and again.
I can almost see others
coming and going,
like stars slipping through unseen doorways—
a hush of light,
a breath of time—
to re-enter the universal realm.
As we drift toward our new beginnings,
we feel the familiar pull—
ready to walk yet another road,
with all its junctions,
and all its questions.
Maybe we aren’t meant to remember
the moment we arrive,
or the moment we depart.
Maybe forgetting is part of the grace.
And still,
I imagine—no matter who we are,
or where we’ve been—
we are all the same
as soon as we enter.
Walking all the way to the end,
only to begin again.
And then there are the quiet thoughts
that creep in
while holding a child’s hand,
staring out a window,
or watching something as small
as a butterfly flutter through the afternoon light.
-
The Butterfly
A thought came to my mind
while observing a butterfly.
What I know about
a butterfly is pretty amazing—
what I don’t know, I imagine,
is equally important.
Then, all at once, I thought:
If the butterfly doesn’t know I’m watching,
while I’m thinking about
how beautiful its life is—
Does the butterfly know how amazing its life is?
Then I wondered—
Who is observing me at this very moment,
speculating whether I know how amazing I am?
Do I truly know
how significant my life is?
And then another thought returned—
If the butterfly doesn’t know it’s being watched,
it’s entirely possible
I don’t know that I am being watched.
No, not by another person—
but by something only visible
when I am still—
something I can only see with my heart,
and feel deep in my soul.
Today I know, without a doubt—
there is always more
than what meets the eye.
– Gulten Dye
We forget so easily. That’s the tragedy and the mercy of being human. But now and then, if we’re lucky, a child reminds us. A butterfly teaches us. And for a moment, we remember that this borrowed body is not all we are.
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