"Butterflies are everywhere!" shouted Jacob, our bright blue-eyed, copper-capped three-and-a-half year old great-grandson, glowing with excitement. "Butterflies are everywhere!"
Brilliant orange and black Monarch butterflies fluttered, drifted, and soared in the blue and gold sky of a perfect March day in Pismo Beach like a spring version of autumn leaves in flight. The towering eucalyptus grove on Highway 1, known for its butterfly trees, is the migratory home of the plentiful fragile winged creatures. Today it was like a monumental magnet aswirl with them.
Our daughter, Kathy, hadn't even pulled into a parking space yet, and Jacob's joy was contagious. We three adults exchanged silent grins; our skin rippling with exhilaration at his exuberance and utter delight. And it was no wonder. Kathy had planned ahead and provided him with a colorful book about butterflies so he and I had been counting them with mounting anticipation during the forty-mile trip from home. Now he was more than ready for the real thing.
"Get me out, get me out," he urged with irrepressible eagerness, straining to be released from the confinement of his car seat.
"O.K., big guy." A couple of clicks and he was free.
Close enough to the Pacific to hear the faint song of the surf, we headed for the butterfly trees. Soon the three of us adults sauntered the trail winding through the trees after Jacob, barely able to keep up with him as he bounded from one wonder to another.
"The bee-noc-u-lars?" He managed to articulate a question and a reasonable first-time use of the four syllable word, as he looked up at the winged action-scene above and about him. Gene handed a pair of binoculars to Jacob, and he was off with them before his great-grandpa could utter a word of instruction. He held them to his eyes like an old pro and pointed them upward in the direction of the aromatic silver-leafed branches. He was much too eager to bother with anything so mundane as adjusting the focus.
Bystanders watched him with soft reminiscent smiles on their faces, and a nearby docent gestured upward. "There's a Great Horned Owl right there." Jacob had already had the privilege of becoming well acquainted with a Great Horned Owl at our local zoo. However, never had he seen so many butterflies embossing the air anywhere, and he only had eyes for them. He fiddled with the binoculars long enough for his great-grandpa to snap a few photos of him at his most beguiling.
Until, of course, two adult-sized telescopes and a Jacob-sized-one that sat at the edge of the trail, unused, snared his attention the moment he spied them. Handing off the binoculars to Grandma Kathy, he immediately took possession of the small telescope, squinting into it with total absorption. Only heaven knew if he could see anything, but he was certainly savoring the experience. We have the pictures to prove it.
Gene and I claimed a bench and sat back to watch Kathy shepherd Jacob through this new and exciting experience. "There's a lot to be said for being the great-grandparents blessed to sit back and relish the sight of their offspring being grandparents for the first time," I said. Gene smiled and nodded, his hazel eyes suddenly bright with tears. He squeezed my hand. It's his way of saying how much he savors the rare and irreplaceable pleasure of witnessing our daughter and grandson delight in one another.
Suddenly we had a rush of realization. "He may only be pint-sized, but I suspect we're in the presence of a grand master of the art of living," I said.
"That we are," he said, nodding.
We breathed deeply of salt air that relaxed us into the peace and purity of the moment, allowing ourselves to be caught up in our free spirit, Jacob's, unfettered enchantment with life, his grandmother's absorption in him, the world of nature, the alchemy of loving and being loved, and all their attendant miracles.
Jacob and Kathy headed for the trailer housing the butterfly docents' alluring wares. Without a word, we marveled together at the subtle shift of perception we had experienced at these everyday miracles that had managed to bring us once again to a sudden acute remembrance of the miracle of life. The miracle of love. The miracle of the open heart. The miracle of one small redhead with a faint sprinkling of freckles dusting his nose, bright blue eyes that sparkle and dance and make our hearts smile, and his gleeful grin that easily expands us all into becoming involuntary emissaries of the richness of being.
(The state butterfly tree sites close March 31st.)
Jane and Gene
