by Mary Alice
Then, on a breath, she saw a butterfly. A beautiful, big monarch floated on a breeze right past her. She felt the thrill of discovery and wanted to call out to Mariposa, but her grudge kept her silent. So she privately marveled at the single monarch—as if it were the first she’d ever seen in her life. Pablocito saw it and turned his head. Seeing her smile, he chuckled, digging deep crevices into the dust on his face. He pointed farther up the trail.
“¡Más! ¡Muchas más!” he told her.
He was right. More monarchs began flying past her, in groups of ten and twenty. When they passed what looked like a dry riverbed she saw hundreds of butterflies shooting past her and her poky horse, taking a shortcut straight through that path to the treetops. Luz laughed out loud with delight. Now she saw them everywhere, in the trees, on the ground, sipping nectar in meager patches of sunlight.
They’d climbed for almost an hour when the shaded path opened to an idyllic meadow. Like a deer stepping from the dark woods, Luz lifted her face and felt the warm kiss of sunlight on her skin. The soft, green grass was spiked with all kinds of wildflowers; purple, red, and yellow. Luz smiled to herself, thinking Margaret would be in heaven here, writing down the names of the plants and sketching them in her notebook. She would know them all. Monarchs on gossamer wings flitted about like dainty fairies, nectaring on the colorful blossoms and basking in the sunlight.
Mariposa stopped and dismounted; Luz followed suit. Her legs felt watery after the long ride and she stretched them while Mariposa spoke rapidly to the boy in Spanish. He nodded in understanding and led the horses to a spot in the shade.
“We’ll walk from here,” Mariposa told Luz. “Here.” She handed her a bottle of water. Grateful, Luz drank thirstily. She’d not packed anything for this last-minute trek. Mariposa kept her word and remained silent. When Luz finished, Mariposa took the empty plastic bottles and put them in her backpack.
“Don’t forget to bring the ashes,” Mariposa said.
As if she would forget them, Luz thought to herself. Inside, she was torn between the resentment she held against Mariposa and her desire to share these amazing moments with her. She wondered if Abuela would have been able to make the climb, and what she might have had to share. Luz followed Mariposa’s long strides, two silent women walking through the meadow.
The next section up was arduous as they climbed a steep mountain bank choked with vines. Luz felt her chest constrict in the thin air and her breath come short. She had to stop frequently to catch her breath, bending over like a winded old woman. The altitude didn’t seem to bother Mariposa. She walked on ahead, quiet on her feet, and her long legs quickly outdistanced Luz.
Luz saw Mariposa stop in the trail to bend and pick up a butterfly. Catching up, Luz saw it lying still in her hands, but alive. Mariposa cupped the butterfly in both hands and, bringing it close to her mouth, softly blew a few warm breaths on it. She opened her hands. The butterfly shivered, flexed its wings a few times, and flew off into the air.
Luz looked at her mother with surprise. The woman was a series of contradictions. Restrained one moment, emotional the next. Cold, then hot. Destructive, then a savior. Luz was getting dizzy just trying to keep up.
Mariposa rose and slapped the dust from her hands. “Sometimes they get cold up here and fall in a stupor. They just need a little CPR,” she added with a smile.
Luz didn’t laugh, but she began looking for other butterflies that needed CPR.
“This last part is a little difficult, but you can do it,” Mariposa said, her voice encouraging. “Just be careful not to trip on the vines. Ready?”
“Okay.” Mariposa held out her hand and gave Luz a firm tug to help her up a rocky bank. They continued upward for another half hour of tough hiking, until suddenly Mariposa stopped at a ridge and stood motionless.
“There it is,” she said in a soft voice.
Luz came to her side, looking around with curiosity. It all looked like the same forest to her. She followed Mariposa to an enormous fir, a granddaddy of the forest. Mariposa pointed. On its massive trunk were beautifully carved ancient symbols that Luz couldn’t identify. Mariposa let her fingers glide across the wood carvings as myriad emotions flickered across her face. Then with a deep breath she grabbed hold of the trunk with both hands and in a flash rounded the massive base, descending to a lower ledge, and disappeared. Luz’s breath caught. A few seconds later Mariposa poked her head around.
“Your turn,” she said to Luz.
Luz balked.
“Don’t be afraid. Women in our family have done this for generations and we haven’t lost one yet. Use both hands and swing your leg around. I’ll help you. Careful now.”
Luz licked her lips and looked beyond Mariposa’s head to the steep cliff that seemed to drop to infinity. If she fell here, no one would ever find her. Did she trust her mother to catch her if she fell? She hesitated at seeing the muddy incline caused by Mariposa’s boots.
From somewhere inside she heard Abuela’s voice. Courage!
Luz suddenly thought of the story of Little Nana and how she’d stood bravely at the precipice while the gods commanded her to jump. Come on, Luz told herself. This is your moment. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed hold of the trunk with shaky hands. She mimicked Mariposa and swung around the base of the tree. Instantly Mariposa’s strong hand was on her arm, guiding her around to safety on the ledge. Luz took a long, shaky breath and brushed the slivers of wood and moss from her jacket. Then she lifted her head.
All that she had read, all the stories she’d heard, all the photographs she’d seen couldn’t capture the impact of experiencing this sacred cathedral of stone and trees. She stood on a cliff overlooking cragged mountains that climbed high into the clouds and between them lay a deep valley. The forest of giant oyamel trees, mysterious and mighty, stood with their boughs heavily laden with thick clumps of brown and gray leaves.
Only they weren’t leaves. They were thousands—millions, an incomprehensible number—of monarch butterflies with their wings in closed position, clinging to the branches of trees in clumps, like beehives. She was so close to some of the branches that she could have reached out and touched them, but she didn’t.
Mariposa spoke in a hushed voice at Luz’s side.
“Abuela brought me to this same spot, as her mother took her. We believe that this is the temple of the goddess Xochiquetzal. It is said that she lives in a garden high up in the mountains surrounded by flowers. But what are butterflies if not flying flowers?”
She turned to face Luz with solemnity. Slowly, with purpose and determination, she breathed deep and straightened her back. Any weakness or excess emotion she might have shown the night before fled from her. Mariposa became otherworldly, her beauty ageless. She appeared as one with all the natural elements that surrounded them. Her high, sharp cheekbones were like the chiseled rocks of the mountains. Her hair flowed down her back, the same sienna color of stone. Her eyes glittered like obsidian, gleaming with mystery. She was a high priestess of this ancient and holy temple as she turned to face the great abyss. Her voice resonated with the rich timbre of conviction.
“This is the place, deep in the heart of the Mother of Mountains, the Sierra Madre, where monarchs have come for millennia following the call of the gods. This is the place where women in our family have come to offer them praise for generations. I call out to our mother, Esperanza, to join us here as we pay homage.”
Mariposa took a deep breath; then, raising her arms in supplication, she began to sing. Luz’s breath caught at the purity of her voice. She sang a song unlike any Luz had heard before. Though she recognized the language as Purépecha, she couldn’t understand the strange keening of syllables and sounds. Yet in the universal language of music, Luz intuitively knew that her mother sang a song of women. As Mariposa stood at the precipice, her sweet voice sang of love and duty and heartache and commitment. The song pierced Luz’s heart with its haunting melody, filling her soul with unspoken expectations of
womanhood. When Mariposa was finished, Luz reached up, surprised to find tears on her face.
Mariposa turned to face Luz and in the manner of ceremony, she reached out to clasp Luz’s hand firmly in her own “My daughter, I pray that you are blessed with many children. That you have the strength to fight for them when needed. The wisdom to give good counsel. The heart to offer love and compassion. And the serenity to leave them in joy and peace when you are called to join the spirits.”
Mariposa turned again to face the valley and called out in a ringing voice, “I stand here to humbly ask the Greater Spirit for your blessing. To help Luz in her transformation from child to woman. Grant her the gift of life and light. Give her wisdom to become one with you.”
Mariposa turned and smiled benignly, almost shyly. She’d relinquished the role of high priestess as she released Luz’s hand. “I’m going to leave you for a while,” she told Luz. “I won’t be far. Just to the other side of the ledge. You need to be alone now. There are times when words are a distraction. You must experience the moment in your own thoughts. Now you must listen to the butterflies.” She leaned forward to kiss Luz on her forehead, lingered a second, then without another word turned to walk to a farther distance along the ledge.
Luz hadn’t expected to be left alone. She breathed in the cool, moist air that tasted and smelled of pine. She thought of her mother’s singing, feeling again the soul-stirring connection. Then she turned to face the fierce, cragged wall of sienna-colored rock that soared into the sky to pierce the soft, white clouds. Giant oyamel firs grew on the sides of the mountains, creating a canopy that protected the colonies of butterflies. She stared out at the forest, at its great quiet and stillness. The butterflies clung in tight clusters, appearing as hefty gray hives hanging from the branches.
Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds and in that miraculous moment the sky exploded in a burst of orange glitter. Cascades of monarchs took to the wing, dancing and swirling across the brilliant blue sky like orange snow. They were everywhere—over her, around her, in front of her. Seeing them, she was infused with a joy so intense and palpable that Luz felt her heart expand and grow with it. She opened up her arms to embrace the moment, filled with happiness, laughing out loud. The sound of a million beating wings filled the valley, echoing like the wind. She felt the fluttering of wings across her hair, her cheeks, her shoulders like kisses and heard the voice of Abuela sing out, Dance, querida!
Abuela’s spirit filled her mind and heart and soul. Luz felt she was in the sky, dancing with the butterflies. There was no past. There was no future. There was only this glorious, glittering now. It was, she knew, what heaven must be like.
Mariposa stood alone on the precipice and looked out across the valley of her ancestors. She had fulfilled her duty, she told them. She’d brought her daughter to the Sacred Circle. Now she sent her prayer to her mother on the wings of the butterflies.
The sun burst through the clouds and in the space of a gasp the blue sky was afire with millions of flickering flames. In that instant Mariposa felt the spark of a small flame ignite within. It glowed and sent its dazzling light flowing through her bloodstream. With astonishment, she recognized this light. She knew this feeling! It had been so long since she’d felt it, or had even looked for it. She thought she’d extinguished this flame long ago.
She closed her eyes and meditated on the light, welcoming it back into her soul. As tears flowed down her cheeks. Mariposa understood in a burst of illumination that all this time she’d been seeking the forgiveness of others, but she’d never asked forgiveness from the most important person—herself. Without achieving that, she couldn’t begin to change her life. One by one she peeled back the layers of her self-loathing, naming her weaknesses, forgiving them.
She felt the power grow within her. She opened her eyes and saw the blue sky aflame with orange fluttering. She heard in the rustling wings the voice of her mother, calling her. She yearned to be with her. She leaned forward. It would be so easy. All she had to do was spread her wings and fly and at last she would find peace.
“Mami!”
A voice pierced her thoughts, calling her back. She blinked and looked down at her feet, surprised to see that she was standing with her toes at the edge of the precipice.
“Mami!”
Was that Luz? At first she was stunned, and then her heart leaped wildly for joy. It was the first time her daughter had called her mother.
Mariposa looked out again at the butterflies dancing in the sky. Somewhere out there, she knew her mother waited for her. But beside her on the ledge, her own daughter called for her. She gave thanks to the Greater Spirit for answering her prayer.
Mariposa stepped away from the edge and walked to her daughter. She walked three feet, six feet—an immeasurable distance in light of that created between her and her daughter over so many lost years.
Continuity. Rebirth. Circle. These were the words Mariposa would cling to. They gave her hope. Four generations of renewed promise created the marvel of the fourth-generation butterfly that, newly born, followed the call to travel thousands of miles to the Sacred Circle. Four generations from now, her great-great-granddaughter would make her journey to this same spot.
She found Luz standing absolutely still with a dozen butterflies on her arms, her head, her clothing.
“Mami, look!” Luz exclaimed, her face both beaming and amazed. “Isn’t it a miracle?”
Mariposa smiled at her daughter and felt the flame inside of her flicker and glow brighter. “Yes. A miracle.”
Luz reached out for her hand and Mariposa saw the little girl whose hand she had dropped so many years before. She leaped forward to grasp it now and held it tight as the butterflies took flight.
Luz reached into her backpack and retrieved the woven satchel that contained Abuela’s ashes. She held it in her hands and recalled the long journey from their bungalow in Wisconsin to this mountainside in Mexico. She didn’t feel sadness; rather, she felt free of her anger and confusion. She stood in glorious elation that at last she understood her grandmother and her grand passion for life. She stood at the precipice as the sun sent another burst of monarchs cascading to the sky.
“You’re home, Abuela,” she said, knowing she was heard. “Thank you!”
Luz handed her mother a handful of ashes and together they released the ashes into the air to mingle with the butterflies in their aerial dance of joy. It was here that Abuela’s spirit resided; they both felt it. Mariposa and Luz stood arm in arm, basking in the light, each knowing that she would always remember this moment when they stood together in the Sacred Circle and witnessed a miracle.
Twenty-Six
The monarchs that survived the migration south and the long winter in Mexico will face similar dangers on their migration north in the spring. They fly out of the sanctuaries in search of milkweed on which to lay the eggs of the next generation. Each butterfly carries a microcosm of all the generations of the entire population. Thus, this remarkable cycle begins anew.
Luz sat in a window seat of the crowded plane and gazed out as she traveled north. It had been a tumultuous season of new relationships and good-byes. She’d said good-bye to Abuela. She’d met and said good-bye to her friends, her extended family in Mexico and in San Antonio. And her mother.
Luz closed her eyes and captured her last image of Mariposa. She was standing at the airport with her shoulders straight and a determined smile on her face. The roar of jet airplanes taking off and landing intermingled with the announcements on the intercom and the buzz of chatter. Conversation was nearly impossible. They were both trying to be upbeat and cheerful, but parting again, after having found each other, was difficult for them both.
On the long drive back from Angangueo to San Antonio, Luz and Mariposa had entertained the fantasy that Mariposa might come back to Milwaukee to live with Luz in the bungalow. When they’d returned to San Antonio, however, Sam had taken Luz aside and explained to her, in his clear, firm voice,
that Mariposa was still in recovery. She needed her support group in San Antonio and her routine. Luz had to be the strong one now, he told her, because Mariposa would be unable to say no to her. She had to let Mariposa stay and return home alone. What he didn’t say, but what was tacitly understood, was that Sam would be by Mariposa’s side looking out for her. When Luz thought again of Mariposa’s emotional highs and lows on the Day of the Dead, she believed Sam was right.
Mariposa’s eyes had filled with tears when the final boarding call came. For a brief moment her tight hold on her composure slipped. She stepped forward and brought her hands up to cradle Luz’s face and peer into her daughter’s eyes.
“This isn’t good-bye, mi hija,” she told her. “Look for me in the spring when the days grow long and the sun warms again. I will fly north to see you. And in the fall, when the nights grow cold again and the leaves change, you will fly south to see me. We’ll be like the butterflies, you and me.”
Remembering these words, Luz smiled. The sentiment had settled in her heart and comforted her. It was the same feeling of peace she’d experienced when she was a child listening to Abuela’s stories at night when a storm raged. The inherent truth embedded in these words resonated with Luz, and she no longer felt sad or afraid.
Luz bent forward and pulled out Abuela’s photograph album from her carry-on bag. Leaning back in her seat, she opened it and began turning the pages. She gazed at the familiar photographs of her great-grandparents, her grandparents, her uncles and aunts. There was the favorite photo of her mother carrying Luz as a baby. Luz smoothed the curling edges.
Now there were new photographs in the album. Her lips curved at seeing the family portrait taken before she’d left Angangueo. Tío Manolo, Tía Estella, Tías Rosa and Marisela, Yadira, and other family members were gathered around Mariposa and Luz, squinting in the sun with bright smiles on their faces at Abuela’s gravesite. She noted the strong family resemblance in many of their features, including her own. Obvious signs of shared DNA gave her a feeling of belonging.