Life and Death and Butterflies

I counted 74 butterflies when I went outside today for a few minutes.
To smoke.
It is spring in San Diego and the painted ladies are heading north.
With our recent rains, we apparently have a plethora (isn’t that a great word!) of the whispy winged bugs. They seem to head off in twos and threes… then you’ll see a lone butterfly, you can almost hear saying “hey, wait for me!”
My boss Jim says he was at a party the other day and mentioned the butterflies and no one there knew what he was talking about.
74 butterflies in the space of 5 minutes. How can you miss that?
Not to mention the numbers I’ve hit with my car. Thunk. I feel like a butterfly murderer.
It’s a bit disconcerting.

* * *

I have a lot of thoughts about Terri Shiavo. Too many to articulate now. But does anyone else find it ironic that her parents want to force feed her… and that what apparently caused her brain damage was an eating disorder. “AH WA” she groaned. Which her parents have interpreted to mean “I want to live.” I pray for them. I pray that they find the strength to accept the inevitable. To accept that their daughter has been gone for the last 15 years.
(I’m sighing and shaking my head now.)
Ditto on that….