Look Up To The Sky

It was a bright, early spring morning. The sun was shining over the buttercups and dandelions that peeped above the rich green grass of the meadows to smile at the sky. The beautiful, flat, open countryside was sprinkled with bushes that were ready to unroll their silver leaves to show their green palms and point to the distant hilly rocks beyond.

Sitting on an old wooden bench, in his garden with this wonderful view, was an old man. He seemed very old, and worn and sad. Upon a rickety old wooden table in front of him stood a flask of coffee and a half eaten croissant, the remains of his breakfast. He looked across the wide open countryside without a smile on his face. Had he been able to see his own face in the mirror he would have been shocked. Where dimpled smiles had once reigned there was a shrivelled old face, wrinkled and worried, old and battered. He did not look up any more. His head faced downwards, he was just a withered old man with neither energy nor enthusiasm. It is true that he had lost his loved one yet he still had many friends, or would have, if he cared to get in touch with them now and again. His wealth had largely gone too, although that was never so important to him. His old cottage in this glorious wide valley was once his pride but not even that brought a smile to his face. He spent all of his time, when the weather allowed, just sitting on his terrace in front of his unkempt lawn and his diminishing vegetable garden but he had forgotten how to enjoy the splendour of his surroundings.

On this particular morning, however, something was to happen and the old man had no idea…

It was a butterfly that came, and although the old man had always been good in identifying the creatures that visited his garden and the surrounding valley, he had never seen the likes of this small beauty. It was slightly larger than the swallowtails that sometimes visited his garden and the wings were a deep, rich golden colour that darkened towards the creature’s smooth, bronze body. In the centre of each wing was a small, ovular circle, deep brown at the circumference and turning gradually into green in the middle – like two beautiful, green brown eyes. Those “eyes” may have been to ward off predators but, as the old man saw them, it was as if something had woken him out of a long and boring dream, he was entranced. It would not be true to say that this small insect was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen for he had experienced many wonderful things in his long life and had appreciated lots of different kinds of beauty. But this golden Lepidoptera instantly belonged to those most wonderful things he had ever seen. Without even noticing his achy old bones he got up from the bench, automatically reached out for his strong walking cane and hobbled across his garden to get a closer look. As the butterfly flit from one bloom to the next the old man followed, and followed again. He was fascinated and astonished at its beauty and amazed that he had no idea of its name. For several minutes he chased the tiny insect all over his garden, as fast as his old bones would manage, until, in one last flight to the end of the old man’s land, the butterfly flew off towards the hills.

The old man stood there, watching it flutter away. Even long after the butterfly was no more to be seen he stood there in amazement and wonder: what could that fine creature be? The butterfly had attained something that not one of the old man’s friends had achieved. Since the time that his loved one had passed away the old man had not once looked up to the sky, nor did he perceive his surroundings any more and he certainly had lost all appreciation for the beauty of the nature that was all around his country home. Yet now, without him realising, there was almost a smile on his face, but just almost.

Still, minutes after the butterfly had gone, he stood there looking across the valley to the hills and without him being aware it was like a breath of fresh air. Deep in his subconscious he had made the first step, he had seen beauty once again, had perceived the gift of Mother Nature that had always been there. With not quite so much agility as he displayed chasing the butterfly, he walked backed to his cottage and went inside. Minutes later he returned with three books and sat at his dilapidated garden table and began to sift through them. Two books of butterflies, and a nature book, but none of them revealed to him the identity of his fabulous visitor.

Like someone who gets up in the morning and for no apparent reason has an old catchy tune in their head and cannot prevent themselves from humming it the old man got up on the next morning and thought of nothing but the butterfly. And he was not disappointed. For several days the butterfly returned, at the same time, and allowed the old fellow to follow up to the bottom of the garden when it disappeared, once more, towards the hills.

By the end of a week the old boy was aware of the “almost smile” that touched his heart as he stood watching the butterfly flutter off to the hills. And then, one morning, the butterfly failed to appear and the old man wandered around the garden, supported by his cane, in a vain attempt to see the little creature. For two further weeks the butterfly came one day and not for two or three and whether it came or not the old man ended up at the end of his garden looking across to the hills. Finally, like an automated robot, the old man did something he had not done for years. After a good breakfast in his old kitchen he packed his small mountain rucksack, with his old trekking essentials, a wallet full of money, two full water containers and enough provisions for a long day’s march. He stepped out into his garden with his rucksack on his back, locked his back door and stood on his terrace hoping that the butterfly would return just once more.

And it did! And he followed it, as usual, to the bottom of his garden but, this time, he did not stop and stare as it flew away but he slipped through the back gate and followed the small insect across the valley towards the hills just as best as he could with the aid of his cane, across meadow and over stream. The butterfly seemed almost to understand that the old man was no greyhound. It settled every now and again on the meadow flowers to allow him time to get close, but never close enough, for it would fly away again just as the deep brown green “eyes” on the insect’s wings were reflected in the old man’s gaze. And yes, even he realised it, he had a smile on his face once again!

It was, of course, an arduous task for the old man to keep up with the butterfly, which was gradually winding its way across the open countryside towards the hills but it whiled away for an hour or two in a small field riddled with cream coloured primulas. Just enough time for the old man to sit on the grass and enjoy a well earned lunch. All day long the man followed his golden friend until, suddenly it sank in. He could not follow all night, and he would have no clue as to where to find the butterfly the next morning, and it was far too far to return home. So, he looked around him, and was immediately aware of the small community not far ahead, nestling between the grey rocks of the hills. He headed towards the few buildings amongst which were a small hostel, a church, a few cottages, and a modest restaurant for passing travellers.

Heading towards the hostel he saw a large stick resting on a tree that some children had whittled down from a broken branch. It made an ideal walking staff so the old man took it with him, carefully placing his old cane in its place. From now on, he thought, “I do not need a cane to help me walk but a mountain staff to help me walk faster. I am not an old codger, I am still healthy, and my condition can only improve if I continue my trek – wherever it may lead”.

On the following morning the old boy stopped just outside the door, looked up to the east and saw the dawn of a beautiful new day. Without further ado he headed that way. His staff helped him keep up a better pace than on the previous day as did the ground on the long and winding path that slowly rose and meandered around the hillsides. There was no butterfly on that second day but the old man hiked along the pathway enjoying the glorious view, aware that he was smiling.

He arrived at a junction at which he made an immediate choice. Straight ahead, where the main path wound around the hill to the right, with a wonderful green vista to the north, was not the way of his choice. Instead he strolled up the incline to the south along which the mountainsides were patterned with small green and yellow patches of grass and small gorse bushes. It was not only the thought of the butterfly that was on his mind now but the entire vista around him. For two hours he wandered this path and then down into a beautiful hidden canyon, where he lunched by a small stream before wandering off and down towards the next little village.

For days he trekked through the lower realms of the mountains stopping at hostels and stocking up with provisions for the next day. The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months but it was not even necessary to make his journey go on into years, one day he just decided that it was time to go home.

He had never seen the beautiful butterfly again, although he often saw those beautiful brown green eyes in his mind, and he saw too, images of his loved one, and instead of missing them he felt them both warm his heart. His smile was constant now, and his face was no longer a leathery old crumpled up football but a bright yet wrinkled face of a man who was no longer quite so old as one thought, who had found a new strength and a new reason to look up to the sky. For no matter where his loved one was, no matter how far away his imaginary butterfly had flown, they were always there, with him, in his heart. Sure, he was still an old man, but his strength and his stamina had been renewed. His subconscious had pushed the smile back onto his lips. For his friends, after his return, he even looked younger again. Above all he realised that the love that he had once shared and had lost, had returned again. He still shared his love of nature with his lost loved one, thanks to the vision of those brown green eyes.

It is your heart and your mind that determines your age and not the state of your muscles and bones. It is the not the memory of love which is important but its continuation, it must not stop but live on in your heart, forever.

The old man, with much more spring in his walk now, was almost home. His long trek had re-established his faith and his zest for life. He arrived home, fit and strong, and before putting the kettle on for a cup of tea, he picked up his old phone and called his best friend.

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