They always do...

Sunday morning, I wandered over to Cape May Point to see the butterflies, thousands of flimsy critters assembling at the edge of the sea, grabbing tiny sips of nectar, shoring themselves for the passage across the Delaware Bay.

They clearly recognize themselves, these Monarch butterflies--groups of five or seven, more or less, will flit with each other. Not sure what they're saying, but sure they're saying something in whatever language matters to those with wings larger than their imaginations.

There is so much we do not understand.

I got home to prep for school, something all teachers worth the title do on Sunday afternoons, and I checked my school email.

We lost a child, one I knew, one everybody knew--she was that kind of person.

I wandered out to the garden to collect seeds, because when these kinds of things happen, as they will, it is in the garden I find solace. 

And today many of my students planted zinnias and marigolds and basil seeds, and the seeds will germinate, and they will eventually flower again.

We're grieving here in Bloomfield, and we will for some time, but I need to bear witness today to what i saw--hundreds of young adults under tremendous pain taking care of each other.

I mentioned to someone in the office that the kids were taking as much care of me as I was of them. She looked up and said:

"They always do."

They're at the edge of a wide sea right now, and they do not yet know how they will cross it.

But they will.

They always do.

Butterfly pictures by a variety of Logeman/Carsons (Brendan, Diane, and maybe Sue), used without permission.