Bonnie*B
The Uninvited Guest
When I was young and living in the South I read a book of what was then called “Negro Poetry.” There was a poem about a butterfly that flitted into a rural church on a Sunday morning. All I recall of the poem was that it said the butterfly had no need of prayer, no need of a house of worship, no need of a savior tortured for its sake. The butterfly, the poet said, belonged out in the free summer air.
Years later I heard the Buddhist story of Chuang Tzu, who dreamed he was a butterfly. In the dream he was aware of his identity, but when he awoke he was uncertain if he was Chuang Tzu who’d been dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was Chuang Tzu.
When I heard the Buddhist story, I thought back to that Negro poem and wondered if the poet ever had such a dream. Were there moments on waking when he was uncertain whether he was a man or a butterfly, whether he belonged in the church or out in the free summer air.
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