The butterfly flitted on its way, unmindful of the gentle breeze that ruffled its wings. It flew here and there, content in its own way to wander without a goal, without any needs except to be part of the breeze that blew past its wings as it flew along, unhurried, unfurled and even.
This little butterfly’s life had been brief. From caterpillar to chrysalis inside its quiet and heavy cocoon, it had stayed for what seemed eons of time – quiet, patient, waiting for the moment when it could break out of its prison, unfurl its wings and fly straight up into the air.
Now it did just so, flitting around in circles, occasionally meeting up with another butterfly, always mindful of predators or a strong and sudden gust of wind that could tear at its thin, translucent wings and send it hurtling down to earth.
Now and again the butterfly seemed to have glimpses of another life, another form. It seemed to be a much heavier and more ponderous life, this other one. But usually the butterfly ignored these unsettling inner sightings and just did what butterflies do, without thought, without motive, without any other goal than just to be what it was, a butterfly flying free.
And as it did so the day lengthened into night and the butterfly headed back to the tree where it slept through the long period of darkness. It flew gently toward it and then suddenly stopped.
The man lay in his bed, bewildered, bemused, lost in thought. It had seemed so real to him, this gentle butterfly life. He lay in the early morning light, listening to the sounds of the village as it slowly came to wake all about him. He heard the creaking of doors as people made their way to the outhouses. He heard the sudden squall of an infant, the bark of a dog, the clomp of an ox as it trudged out to the fields, led by its sleepy master. He heard the sounds of fires being built, the tea kettles and the rice pots being readied for breakfast.
He lay there a long time, without rising, without moving, other than the slow and deep rising and falling of his belly as he breathed his way into the day. His dream, if that is what it was, had been so vivid, so real. He had actually experienced himself as that butterfly – had felt the breeze on his wings, felt himself carried through the air as light as a seed, had thought only butterfly thoughts. Yet now, here he was, back in his human body, back in the world of cause and effect. But which was truly real and which was the dream – himself as a butterfly, or himself as a man, waiting here for his students to come and drag him out into the light of day with their incessant questions and demands?
How did he know that what he was experiencing now was not the dream? That he really was that butterfly, living its simple butterfly life, unattached and a part of the great natural world of Tao. He smiled in the darkness then. Truly, it did not matter if he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly who was now dreaming he was a man. He knew what he knew and he knew what he didn’t know. That was what sustained him through the long days and nights of his human life. What he knew or experienced in his butterfly life was also there, just outside the periphery of his vision.
He almost laughed out loud. Imagine if I shared this with my students, he thought. He could just see their faces as he explained to them that he was not truly sure if what he experienced in his human life was any more real than what he experienced in his butterfly life.
He slowly rose from his bed, and, stretching out his arms above him like the slow unfolding of butterfly wings, went forth into the day.
CHUANG TZU