rudderless

Butterflies

There are many wonderful tales from our time in Maine and I will tell all that I can remember, but the one that stands out as my favorite has to be Sophie’s butterfly adventure. Woodenboat Magazine and the Woodenboat School are located in Brooklin, ME, a stone’s throw from where we stayed for the week. Their campus is breathtaking and better yet, completely open to the public. Imagine- in Florida, there would be a big gate and an admission fee and all sorts of rules to use land as beautiful as theirs. But we were free to walk through their beautiful fields and do a little drooling over their boats. Sophie caught sight of a few yellow butterflies and disappeared over the fields, chasing them. She chased and chased through short and tall grass for nearly an hour. It was seriously the most running she’s ever done in her life. Completely unprompted, just because it felt good. She snoozed off her workout in the car while John and I drove all over Blue Hill looking for a butterfly net- anything to foster this crazy love for our fluttering friends.

We had no luck finding a net, but on our morning walk the next day, Sophie started collecting wildflowers and leaves for “a butterfly picnic.” She was convinced that if we could gather just the right things, and make honey sandwiches, with little acorn-caps full of water, the butterflies would come to her “and be easy to catch.” The logic of a three-year-old is just so brilliant.

So while Rosy slept, we collected a stroller-canopy full of mushrooms, autumn leaves, wildflowers and ferns. Oh how I wish I could take that walk every day. Our picnic was delicious and a great deal of fun, even though we forgot the pretty vase and had to use a water bottle. She chased a few promising specimens and then decided that they were too shy to come eat with us. We should leave their tiny offerings in the field and let them enjoy. Smart girl.

I was a little overwhelmed by it all, feeling like my love for all things hippie-Waldorf and “natural parenting” was coming to fruition. The picnic was enough to convince me that we are leading her in the right direction, and that Maine is where we belong. But as we were leaving our friend’s house in York a few days later, on a cold morning, John noticed a sluggish little butterfly on their front walk, still warming his wings. He carefully, carefully scooped him and up and came inside to show the kids. Sophie got to hold it, every so gently. She had caught a butterfly.

Now we are home and she is building fairy houses in tree roots at the park. It makes me feel good to know that with what bits of nature we can gather up, and what stories she writes in her mind (and there are lots of them), she can be entertained for literally days on end. Like the butterflies, her experience was everything we were hoping to find, and then some.