The Cottage, the Woman, and the Butterfly

I walk four miles up a hill that overlooks the town of Avery. I make it a point to walk through the church grounds as it gives me a real sense of why I moved here. I stand in the sun and soak up all that is around me, and just appreciated being alive.

I have never wondered much about myself before. I have played over and over how I could have changed things, but not anymore. I now realize without a doubt that I do not have the power to change anything—except for myself and my attitude.

My life has new meaning. This new strength has enabled me to view each day as an adventure and say yes to every invitation. I have reached a turning point in my life and see that I can have all that life has to offer. I would say to anyone who has been rejected and hurt, you should give yourself the time and luxury of feeling sad, and know that we cannot escape grief, but we can become less vulnerable. We must experience grief to the full before we can heal.

I did not discover this on my own. This new verve for life came from a chance meeting I had on one of my spring morning walks. I usually stayed close to the road, although I had lived here for almost two years, I still worried about getting lost, as I had not sense of direction and had trouble remembering if the sun rose in the east and set in the west and vice versa. On this particular morning, I took a footpath that I don’t recall ever seeing on my previous hikes. led down into a pasture of grazing sheep. I noticed lambs arching their backs in tiny leaps. It was serene and far away from my town The path led into what I can only describe as a small village. I couldn’t say which one—I was lost, but I was not frightened.

I went into a stationary shop and spoke to the woman behind the counter. I asked her how to get back to the main road, she gave me directions, but after a few strides, I was soon lost again.

I walked on until I came upon a cottage. In the front yard was a sculpture of a butterfly, crafted from shades of green moss, succulent plants and pops of red flowers. It sat in a flower bed blooming with lemon yellow, deep orange, and rusty red marigolds. It was magnificent.

“Oh, hello!” A cheerful woman came through the screen door. She wore a pink and white flowing gauze dress, and her white hair was tied up in an old-fashioned bun on the top of her head. She came over and joined me at the topiary.

“Sorry to intrude. I’m Martha, and I believe I’m lost,” I said.

Almost before I had finished my sentence, she invited me into her home. As we stepped onto the front porch she said, “Freshen yourself here, my dear.” She motioned toward an enameled bucket on the porch and stepped inside her house.

After splashing rosewater on my face, if stepped inside her home. The cottage was small and with sprays of white roses guarding the doorway.

I gratefully sat in a chair and she came out and handed me a cup of steaming tea. “Feel better?”

I nodded.

“Martha,” you said, your name is. I’m Lottie.”

I soon learned that she lived in the cottage by herself, as her husband had died almost a decade ago.

“You must like animals,” I said, surveying the many kittens, the mama cat and a very pregnant spaniel. From the south-facing window, I saw hens pecking away at the ground and a donkey in the distance.

“When I get too lonely at times, I tend my garden and the animals.” There was a bit of sadness in her voice. “For me, they take the place of children.”

It was while I sat there, enjoying the scene and resting before my long walk home that I realized that spring had really come. The daffodils were sprouting all around the backyard. The willow trees were dipping and bending in the breeze. The trees and bushes were bursting their buds in a profusion of color. Spring always comes with a burst and at that moment I was surprised that I had not noticed.

“I’m never lonely in my garden,” Lotte continued. “A garden is a special place because from its soil, comes life. All the elements come together, the sun warms the earth and the clouds offer rain so that seeds can give birth to a variety of flora.”

I had noticed the abundance in the flowerbeds around her cottage, and the marigolds around the butterfly sculpture, but now I notice a vegetable patch with cucumbers, English peas, and lettuce. I thought about how amazing it was that fragile seeds could produce such beauty and plenty. If seeds can push forth so much from the earth, then what are we capable of pushing from our very souls? I wondered. “You have quite the green thumb,” I told Lottie.

“It is all about love and attention,” she said. When I tend my garden, I feel like I am tending life itself, from paupers to queens—everyone’s story has meaning.

“Even the hard luck ones?” I asked.

“Especially those. From hardship comes purpose,” she said. “Would you like some more tea?” she offered.

“No, I should be getting back,” I said. “But thank you.”

“Do you know how to make your way back to the road?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said and stood up.

She walked me past the topiary and to the gate. Once on the path, I noticed a green butterfly with pops of red, flitting in front of me. I had no trouble finding my way home.

The next day, as I went out for my walk, and thought I might go visit Lottie. I could not find the footpath, and after almost an hour, I gave up. I went to the post office to get my mail and asked the clerk about the footpath and the village with the cottage. She had no idea what I was talking about.

I never did find Lottie’s cottage again, but her words inspired me, and I even planted my own window box garden. A green butterfly with specs of red circled around it, and by the fall red, yellow, and orange marigolds bloomed in the bed below it.

The End