The Wandering Heart

My family and I had just returned from a week in Maine, staying on a quiet lake where the loons called morning and night. It was one of the best family vacations we’ve had yet, but a Wandering Heart-approved sammie was hard to come by. More on that another time.

We pulled into the driveway late Sunday afternoon after a 6-hour ride home. By Monday, I could already hear the familiar voice beginning to stir. “It’s time to be productive.” Normally, I might have listened. Instead, I simply witnessed it.

You see, I am hosting “Mommy Day Camp” all summer, and it’s very easy to fall into the rhythm of believing we always need to be doing something. Planning something. Going somewhere. Crossing another thing off the summer bucket list. But another voice is becoming more prominent. “You just did a lot in Maine, and the weekend ahead is already full. Your children don’t need another midweek excursion. You are allowed to slow down.”

I knew I wanted to write another blog post this week. Not because I had to, but because writing has become one of the ways I come home to myself. The problem was…I couldn’t decide which recent day trip to write about. There were sandwiches to revisit, little towns still lingering in my heart, and stories wanting to be told. Nothing felt quite right.

So this morning, I set an intention. I’d make space to write – but I wasn’t attached to whether anything actually came. After a week away, I was still transitioning back into everyday life. Add perimenopause into the mix (which is probably an entirely different blog post), and I knew forcing creativity wasn’t going to get me very far. So I dropped the kids off at my mom’s.

When I came home, I carried my mug of cacao outside, settled into the quiet, and listened to the birds. I wasn’t trying to be productive. I wasn’t chasing my next blog post. I wasn’t searching for a sign. I was simply allowing myself to be still enough to notice the beauty already waiting for me. That sentence alone feels significant. It has taken years of healing to create enough space inside myself for moments like this.

Then…she arrived. She floated in from my right and landed on one of my orange daylilies. Her wings were enormous. Bright yellow, marked with black. She didn’t fly in a straight line. She danced through the air in this gentle, rolling rhythm that immediately caught my attention. I scrambled for my phone. She stayed just long enough for one blurry photo before lifting off to another flower. Then another. And just as quickly as she had arrived…she was gone.

Curious, I looked up what kind of butterfly she might have been. With the help of Google and a little guidance from ChatGPT, I learned she was likely an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail. Apparently, they don’t fly in straight lines…they wander. The moment I read that, everything clicked. I’d planned to write about a memorable sammie from one of our recent adventures. Instead, I realized this was the story I needed to tell.

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to move in straight lines – trying to heal, trying to improve, trying to be productive, trying to figure everything out. Yet the things that have brought me most alive this year have all looked remarkably different. Small towns. General stores. Birdsong. Loons. Country roads. Unexpected sandwiches. Writing because my heart wants to. A butterfly that refuses to fly in a straight line.

Maybe healing isn’t becoming someone new. Maybe it’s becoming available enough to notice what has been trying to find you all along.

Now that I am on the other side of writing this blog, basking in the joy, I am reflecting on how it came to life. It didn’t happen while I was sitting at my computer. It didn’t happen while I was trying to force creativity. It happened while I was drinking cacao and listening to birds. I can also say with certainty that it wouldn’t have happened if I gave in to that voice and forced a day trip. And as I type this, nature is confirming my reflections: a robin is singing a sweet song, and a bunny is munching on the clover.

I now have proof that creativity arrives when I am living. Not when I’m trying to produce. I also don’t have to wander far. Sometimes the backyard will do. The destinations are the doorways.

So thank you, not-so-little butterfly. Thank you for reminding me how The Wandering Heart wants to be written. Not from obligation. Not from a content calendar. But from the moments that make me stop…smile…and quietly whisper – “I don’t want to forget this.”

Until next time…may you find something worth wandering toward. ~ Tina

*Published at 1:11*