Beautiful and Terrifying

Beautiful and terrifying. My pulse quickened, the anxiety taking hold. I had thought for a moment that this would be fun. What had I been thinking when I had decided to come to this place?

It was beautiful, and it made me afraid.

Fear can be a healthy thing. It keeps us safe. Often fear is intermingled with a sense of awe for the beautiful. Sometimes we're meant to admire from afar.

How often do fear and beauty overlap?

I think of the tiger. Fierce and deadly, and yet, majestic. It's best observed in nature documentaries and in the zoo with some sort of barrier between me and it.

Raging rivers and waterfalls. Scenic, even calming from far away. But it's no place you would want to submerge yourself.

Fire. Mesmerizing and warm. A beautiful gift people ought to use and admire. It's not something you should directly touch, unless you want to risk burns and disfigurement.

I've been told I'm both intimidating and beautiful. Maybe that's why I'm still single. Anyway.

Then there's this place. Do you ever see a place and think, "This would be a great setting for a horror film?"

A darkened swimming pool. An abandoned house. That creepy cemetery with the birch trees. My mom mentioned that their round dark patches in the white bark look like eyes. I haven't been able to un-see the eyes now in every birch tree.

You could start a horror film here if it was at night or during a storm. The sunlight streaming in made the place look bright and happy at the moment. So deceptive. But if you played the right music in the background...

I could almost hear the ominous music. Don't make any sudden moves.

No sudden moves.

Don't run. Don't swing your arms.

Just breathe. Make your movements slow and deliberate. It's like the movie "A Quiet Place." Okay, that's exaggerating. But not making sudden moves was the rule of this place. I had to follow the rules whether I wanted to or not.

The rules were paralyzing, because all I wanted to do was wildly swing my arms to keep them away.

Them. The things that made this place so frightening.

They could get hurt if I started flailing. And even in my fear, I didn't want to hurt them. It wasn't their fault that they scared me.

I swallowed, glancing above me. I kept my hand up to cover my head. I tried to focus on the sheer beauty and colors surrounding me in the greenhouse dome habitat.

But they were all so close. One wrong move, and they might land on me.

That light, fluffy, tickling feeling. Their little crawly legs touching you ever so gently and creepily! They might even beat their wings and those might touch you too. I cringed at the thought. Some people actually wanted that to happen. Maybe that's why they'd paid to come in here.

Because people paid to come to butterfly gardens. What was this world coming to?

Butterflies are gorgeous. The intricacy of the wings alone is intriguing and awe-inspiring. But butterflies are beautiful "out there."

The moment one touches me, I don't care about beauty. At that point, it has seriously violated my personal space. The instant reminder comes: even the beautiful butterfly is a bug with buggy feet and features.

And I would much much much rather have it out there flying than have it be anywhere near me.

And I am gently reminded that some beautiful things are best admired from afar. Beautiful and terrifying.

Some things in life will remain mysteries. We're not meant to understand everything. There's a lot we can't know or understand, and that's okay.

But the philosopher in me takes a moment to ponder.

How did Elvis die?

Could the grand duchess Anastasia sing?

Why are the acts of pouring milk on cereal and complaining about soggy cereal intertwined?

What do people see in football?

Why do people pay to go into butterfly gardens?

But hey, it's the mystery and intrigue that helps keep life exciting. But I'll leave this mystery (and butterflies) to be admired from afar.