ON Butterflies, crystal and regainging paradise.

If I were to be completely honest, I would probably say something like this:

I am afraid to write what I really think and feel: afraid of being judged harshly, afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of subjecting myself to public scrutiny, afraid of admitting that I get it wrong – a lot. But I am also afraid of not writing, of not saying what I really think and feel; for, to speak not of the things I think, feel and have experienced is to deny who I am and how I came to be. So here, I plan to resume my first attempt at regainingparadise. Yet, this time, if you will permit me a little more anonymity I may honestly find the courage to lay down my true history – The History of MissMellifluous.

Some have written Histories in a manner so as not to offend the exactest purity; I make no such promises. For, who can truly claim to have lived without offence? Whoever does so is a liar and has offended me at once. No, I offer no lies, no pretence, rather I will depict a real History. ‘Ah!’ you may say, ‘but you are surely not to assert that you really are Mellifluous, when it is obvious that you are not. How real can this History be?’ Indeed, my reader is clever, and right above all, for at times my words clang, and resound more like a gong than smooth sweet honey; yet this, too, adds to the verisimilitude rather than the fiction. Besides, if I am to be true and faithful to my experience and so dishevel myself before you, perhaps you will permit me to reveal my self at my discretion in my own time. Allow me this freedom and you will not, if with me you persist, be denied the deepest recesses of my soul. And who amongst you will begrudge a writer so honest the one before you the thin veil provided by a nom de plume when all else is laid bare? For those of you who have been privy to the revelation of my real name in the past, I consider you friends and ask that, out of respect for my wishes and my privacy, you hold that secret close and enable me in anonymity to endeavour to regain paradise once more.

You may ask why I would risk being subject to scrutiny for the sake of self-expression; to which I would reply: if I cannot speak, or write, I am not me. Further, I feel increasingly fettered by the ways my life has failed to meet the standards by which we measure ourselves as Christians. Much of that which I have experienced is taboo to the Christian conception of living a blessed life. Yet, I do not feel that I am not blessed, I do not feel that my experiences are part of the judgement of God on my life, I do not feel that God would make me feel guilty for the things I have lived through the way other Christians make me feel guilty, I do not feel that I am less of a Christian because my path has not been straight. I do feel an incredible sense of loss. I do feel incredibly saddened by events in my life. I do feel that it should not be taboo to speak about the instances in life that shape one’s self, one’s life, and one’s faith. I do feel abhorrence at the thought of presenting myself as someone who has it all together. I do feel like it is time to change this and break the fetters that make me feel like a lesser person because I have not ticked all the right boxes.

The idea of regainingparadise implies that at some point in the past paradise has been lost. And indeed it has; for me many times; many, many times. It implies that paradise was there to begin with. This I am not so sure of but there have certainly been glimpses. It implies that paradise may be re-found, reclaimed, re-entered, regained. This we are yet to see.

Perhaps, I must ask one more favour from my reader before I have the confidence to proceed over the rough terrain ahead. My favour is this: If at any point you find your opinions at odds with the writer, I welcome the expression of such sentiments, reproofs, rebuffs. If at any point, you feel compelled to exclaim, to laugh, to cajole, to whimper, to weep, to dance, to enact or express any impassioned response, please do. May we both have the liberty to be honest with each other. Yet, let us remember each other’s humanity and thus be gentle. Let us remember that the human heart, although resilient, is much like a beautiful crystal glass which when touched in the right manner pours forth a glorious song, or when subject to the right light paints its surroundings with magnificent rainbows, and thus being exceedingly beautiful to hold is in its delicacy likely to break, and break, and break if handled without care. And this crystal once broke remains beautiful still yet but a fragment of that which it was before its sad destruction. Then the only way in which to make it a complete object again is, well, is beyond my current comprehension, yet if it can be achieved it is certainly to be worth the effort. But please remember, the object is never the same as it was before it was shattered: perhaps fragments are lost forever, perhaps the crystal shall never sing the same way again. Perhaps, it all depends on the skill of the master artisan responsible for the reconstruction. So, let us proceed with much care for the delicacy which is laid before us.

With my intentions thus laid out, I know not where to begin and am almost tempted to abandon the task at the thought of such a mountainous climb ahead. Yet through that which has gone before I must proceed in order to press on. I so want to press on. But where does one begin? ‘At the beginning,’ you may well say with Maria, ‘For that is where all good Histories start.’ Again, you are correct. It seems that many good Histories have begun at the beginning, but I do not claim to be writing a good History. No. As my science teacher used to reply to my assertion of being ‘good’ at his enquiry as to how I was: "None of us are good, Kiddo. Just say you’re well." So, well may we proceed; But from where? It is my proposal, as has been my observation, that History is not simply found in the beginning, but also in the now. I observe this simply because that which has past comes forth and enters the present influencing the way we see, think, feel, and act. In this way, History transcends time even as it represents it. Writing in this moment, I am influenced by all that has gone before. The two are inseparable and so in this text I reserve the right to resort to anachrony should I see that the present or the past informs the occasion on which I write. Just as I am inclined to chase butterflies as they flutter by on sunny days, so I am likely to chase thoughts as they alight upon the trail on which we walk. I am sure you will not mind these seeming deviations as we must all concede that a butterfly is indeed a beautiful creature. A creature that will surely be in paradise.

Perhaps we should just share one butterfly at a time…