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Blue Butterfly

                                                The Fisher Woman

Years ago,  in a sea-side village lived an old woman. She was blind in one eye and had one bad leg. Because of this, she had to use a crutch when she walked, and often had to stop and rest.

Early each morning she would leave the village and make her way down to the shore, load her boat with supplies and row out to sea.

Often I would accompany her to the shore and see her off. Sometimes, I would ask if I could go with her. Because I was young, only eight, she would always reply, "You can, once you've grown to the height of my shoulder."

Each evening she would return and share the fish she caught that day with those in need. When she was in need of money she would sell her catch.

On star-lite nights the fisher woman would build a big fire on the beach. There we would all gather, the young and the not so young. She would tell great stories of adventure and intrigue. Often late into the night after everyone had gone to bed just the two of us would talk. And she'd often say to me, "Love, all else is but preparation!"

One day she went out to fish - never to return. A bad storm had blown in, the worst in my eight years that I'd ever seen. The villagers had searched and searched, but the fisher woman was never to be found.

At her memorial, I heard my father say to my mom, "If anyone exemplified living a life with purpose and dignity - it was her."

The village mourned her loss, but none as much as me.

Blue Butterfly

Timothy E. Stevenson   April 8, 2001  ©


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