THERE IS A REASON FOR EVERYTHING

I thought I was the last straggler coming down the stairs from the Roosevelt Island tram because, usually, I am. I like to have one last look towards the tidal strait, an aerial view so to speak. However, today there was someone behind me. I heard a voice calling, "Miss! Miss!" Surely it couldn't be about me I thought but I turned just the same in case I had dropped something. A woman I had noticed and admired on the tram said, "There's a butterfly on your back!" I had liked her simply cut hair (so free and unconcerned) and the fact that she had a missing tooth right where I would wish a missing tooth. Why will no dentist allow me the pleasure of taking out a tooth?? I have so many! The news of the butterfly was as extraordinary to her as it was to me. "He's a monarch!" "I wish I could see it. Him," I replied. She told me to stay still and she would flick gently so he would fly away and then I could, which is what happened. She said she had never seen this before, a butterfly like an "angel on the shoulder." She looked puzzled as though wondering what my secret was. I blurted, "In all of Manhattan, I guess he landed on Calm City." She giggled, "Yes! Yes! You are Calm City!" Then she dashed off. It was one of Life's magical moments which I would have missed if I had hurried to catch the previous tram instead of stopping to talk to a sari-dressed tourist who asked where the indoor/outdoor pool on Roosevelt Island was. I didn't even know there was a pool on Roosevelt Island. I lingered the seven minutes for the "Tram Approaching" sign while talking the consequence of which was the butterfly. Living near the "Feelin' Groovy" bridge is perfect metaphorically. "Slow down. You move too fast. Gotta make the morning last." I had slowed down; not moved too fast; made the morning last; and, thus, a butterfly became past of my future.

THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE

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   It was a day for Enumerating Delights in Central Park. Some people call this Counting Your Blessings but I'm not good at higher math.

    I like to pick a bench by its 3"X2" plaque. I chose an "In Loving Memory" type which had an unusual addition: a tiny etching labelled, "The End of the Trail," the famous Fraser artwork of a Cherokee bent over a weary horse. The man could easily be Lakota or Sioux but, naturally, I think of him as Apache, a tip of the hat to my ancestry. From my bench, I watched the sketch artists for lessons because I have often wondered if I could have a specialty spot for drawing children, angel wings attached as iridescent as abalone shells. I would at the same time enjoy listening. Children's speech is a magical journey of new definitions and emphasis. A four-year old once informed me her mother was very very very very busy reading THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE. How meaningful to change "purpose" to "porpoise." How free and exuberant. A parade of pint-size Zoo Camp 2012-ers marched past  in an orderly file. I thought about their futures. Would any of them ever go to the Amazon River and see the frog as small as a dime whose poison can "take down ten men." (Information courtesy of Ann Patchett's novel, THE STATE OF WONDER). This bit of contemplation reminded me of when I was two and my family was on home leave from Brazil to visit my grandmother in Oklahoma. I told my mother to tell her mother that I only spoke Orcacheese. 

   The Delacorte clock struck eleven. It was time to pack up my library book, THE PASSION OF ARTEMESIA, and eagerly mull the next porpoise or two in my life of many porpoises. Abrigado, Central Park.