The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves,
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is …
Mary Oliver
From
One or Two Things
Reading poetry about butterflies in the same morning as more about neurosculpting has somewhat merged the two in my mind. I imagine neural pathways lighting up in my brain with much the same sort of iridescence we see in a butterfly’s wings. That we do imagine such things is miraculous. That a butterfly emerges from the tight discomforts of the chrysalis towards ‘loping flight … delicately’ is more than miraculous: it is a mystery beyond all adequate explaining. Anil Seth tells me that the colours I see are perceptions created by my own brain; that not every living thing is able to ‘see’ a rainbow as I can. I wonder what a butterfly might experience of itself? How much could a butterfly possibly appreciate about its own beauty? How much do we, about our own?
wind in my wheels 🌱 
Such gentle musings, Simon. And in answer to your question, I think it is difficult for most of us to imagine ourselves as others see us. I know I struggle. There are many days when I silently mouth that little quote, “You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” ❤️
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Aaah 😘. And you absolutely do, dear Lori. You absolutely do. Thank you for being you 🙏xxx
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❤️❤️ xx
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