Swallowtail

by Maria Gelabert

Image credit: Thomas Elliott on Unsplash

In western North Carolina, the world outside the dharma center became muted, and life was feeling slo-mo. My body was sore from four days of meditating several times daily. The simple, delicious meals felt like luxury, and sleeping was a welcome respite from the hard work of calming the mind.

In the dorm, several twin beds were set against the wall with dividers like a linear honeycomb, each cell with a shelf, fan, and several hooks. Above my bed was a skylight with spiderwebs decorating the corners of the recesses. A light brown bamboo shade covered the window, allowing a soft, muted view at night, but blocking the direct sunlight by day.

Per instructions, I brought a mismatched set of sheets from my childhood: navy blue, pink stripes and polka dots. Over four decades, these sheets circulated through dorm rooms, apartments, and houses across several state lines. The pink-striped top sheet tag declared its identity: “Penneys” in curly 1970s font, with “Fashion Manor Percale, 100% Cotton” on the other side. So basic, and now so precious, after time and memory and texture of opposites: heavy, yet light; warm with a cool touch.

These sheets, the bed-in-a-nest, and simple life made me feel girlish for five days, and this dovetailed into my tween years, when I was abandoned by my father. The retreat provided a safe, tranquil environment to further explore my internal spaces.

And in the outdoor spaces, multiple black swallowtail butterflies—their blue “tails” like little feet never meant to land—adorned the landscape. These blue-black beauties struck me with contrast against the speckles of rainbow color and chlorophyll background. Because the swallowtail is rich with meaning within multiple cultures, I wondered if my father’s soul might be here in the mountains, dancing among the flowers.

Three years before, I wondered similarly if Papi’s consciousness was over the Captain Joe Byrd prison cemetery in Huntsville, Texas. To find the gravesite, it took a few phone calls, but eventually I received the information encoded like a Battleship game location: “L3”, to be found somewhere within 20 acres of land. I wasn’t holding my breath. But, sure enough, among the sea of small grey headstones, the alphanumeric system guided me towards the name and date of death.

When Papi died, I inherited $150 and two bankers’ boxes containing a plethora of written materials. Upon investigation, I was bewildered to find no remorse, regret or accountability. As far as I knew, my father maintained the victim mentality until death.

I picked some purple wildflowers, arranged them with pinecones, muttering to myself, Why bother with a gesture? But something else was propelling these actions…among the ether of souls hovering over the unclaimed bodies of inmates.

Why was I visiting? Why the flowers and pinecones? Why did it matter? The concept of “forgiveness” didn’t seem applicable. I continued muttering through quivering lips…my mind playing like a broken record, as it had done so many times before. My body began to sob.

In the months leading to the Huntsville journey, this barrage of thought and feeling had become recognizable as the raw presence of my tortured soul, which simply needed to be for a while.

Eventually, shaking my head, my voice broken: All I can do, Papi, is wish for your soul to be at peace. That’s all, as I stood at the graveside in the sunshine. After the emotional abuse, poor choices, disastrous effects, that was all. My father had suffered, as we all do.

On the final day of the silent retreat, I was sipping tea outdoors in a well-shellacked Adirondack chair, monitoring a bee as it bounced through daisies and black-eyed Susans, burying itself inside the flower center, then retreating to move on to the next bundle. Nearby, a spindly orange daddy long-leg was maneuvering, tiptoeing through the fat, white clover flowers and associated greenery.

I looked up and saw a group of black swallowtails in flight. One stopped and perched on a sapling directly in front of me. It sat, and it sat…and it sat, with gentle flutter, like she was visiting, asking me to notice, pay attention. I stared at the stilled butterfly, in a trance.

“What?” I whispered. No response.

“What…?” My voice quiet and cracked, gut feeling traveling upward, becoming tight-throat and my cheeks began to radiate.

Then the weeping began, and I softly spoke to myself, to the butterfly, to whatever was listening.

“How could you leave us? How could you leave ME? How could you leave me to fend for myself? You kept us scared, terrified—for years—on constant eggshells. How could you?” The butterfly acted like a portal to spirit, remaining in place to best capture everything.

“Let it go. You’ve done enough work.” She communicated directly to my insides. The moment became calm, clear, tender, and my whole body felt lifted, converting into pure emotion.

“Ok, Papi.”

Papi’s soul may have evolved since death, and reincarnation into a butterfly seemed a lovely form of post-human existence, especially after a tumultuous life. No wonder my body felt lighter; I had released a heavy burden.

“Ok, Papi…I will let go of whatever I need to…I’ve done enough.”

Several months later, on a walk with my sister, I spotted another black swallowtail, pausing on the gray-white gravel with coquettish blue shimmer. After passing the butterfly, I turned around to maintain the stare. Hi, Papi. Yes, I know you’re here. Maybe my father was apologizing to both of us.

These swallowtail butterflies are now reminders for me to toss my spirit into the wind, for the creature to catch, with less specificity. I’m tapping into generalized deep feeling that contains all the others: memories of my father—including those of loving—are buried here. The rancor has tenderized into the essence of our father-daughter relationship: the 12 years he was in my life. Unidentified openings are ajar, like cracks in a chrysalis, setting the stage for the rest of my life: felt senses fluttering through the garden.  

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Maria Gelabert

Based in Charlotte (Sugaree Land), Maria Gelabert Artiles, Ph.D, is a professor of chemistry and yoga teacher with specific interests in restorative yoga, Yoga Nidra, meditation and Buddhist dharma. Her writing on personal growth, wisdom and transformation holds the perspectives of scientist and spiritual practitioner, appearing in the Yogaville blog, redrosethorns magazine 03, and housed at Substack (@mariagelabertartiles). You can also find her on Instagram @mariagelabertartiles