Listen with your heart, you will understand.— Pocahontas
Devotion Monarch Butterfly quotations
The winter solstice has always been special to me as a barren darkness that gives birth to a verdant future beyond imagination, a time of pain and withdrawal that produces something joyfully inconceivable, like a monarch butterfly masterfully extracting itself from the confines of its cocoon, bursting forth into unexpected glory.
I embrace emerging experience, I participate in discovery.
I am a butterfly. I am not a butterfly collector. I want the experience of the butterfly.
We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.
Nerves and butterflies are fine - they're a physical sign that you're mentally ready and eager. You have to get the butterflies to fly in formation, that's the trick.
I learned about the sacred art of self decoration with the monarch butterflies perched atop my head, lightning bugs as my night jewelry, and emerald-green frogs as bracelets.
Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.
The butterfly is a flying flower, The flower a tethered butterfly.
They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods
We must remain as close to the flowers, the grass, and the butterflies as the child is who is not yet so much taller than they are.
I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave.
The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
Gray sail against the sky, Gray butterfly! Have you a dream for going.
Or are you the blind wind's blowing?
The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.
The tulip and the butterfly Appear in gayer coats than I: Let me be dressed fine as I will, Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
When a small child... I thought that success spelled happiness. I was wrong.
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
A million butterflies rose up from South America, All together, and flew in a gold storm toward Spain.
As I began researching butterflies, however, the monarch stood out among all of them. It's the only butterfly - the only insect - that migrates like a bird or a whale!
I saw a poet chase a butterfly in a meadow.
He put his net on a bench where a boy sat reading a book. It's a misfortune that it is usually the other way round.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms born to bring forth the angelic butterfly that flieth unto judgment without screen?
My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.
There is a difference between our wisdom and nature's simplicity.
That reflects the burden of a complex intelligence. A complex intelligence like ours is impotent compared to the intelligence of a monarch butterfly migrating from Canada to Mexico, or the intelligence of hummingbirds that have co-evolved with the flowers all along their migration route. That seems so simple; it just happens, it just unfolds.
We must remain as close to the flowers, the grass, and the butterflies as the child is who is not yet so much taller than they are. We adults, on the other hand, have outgrown them and have to lower ourselves to stoop down to them. It seems to me that the grass hates us when we confess our love for it. Whoever would partake of all good things must understand how to be small at times.