A butterfly flies by. While I listen to the music of Lavinia Meijer, she plays the harp. The title of the piece is: Ora by Einaudi.
It seems as if the butterfly flutters by to the rhythm of Lavinia’s harp. The lemon butterfly that I can look at for a long time, while she flutters on to the magical sounds of the harp. Her flight seems random, but she is constantly looking for flowers with nectar, which should provide her with energy.
Her flight is like in a dream: the wonder of nature and its unspeakable beauty.
She lands on a flower suitable for her. She sucks up the nectar with her long retractable suction nozzle.
Then flies on again: the harp plays the beautiful melody of Einaudi. How wonderful how music can express something while I watch the flight of a butterfly. It seems as if the notes flutter around the butterfly. Every wing beat goes along with the rhythm of the harp playing.
The next piece by Einaudi is called Divenire. In my eyes, the butterfly cannot escape that rhythm either. It seems as if nature has composed that music and we just wrote it down.
Some great composers have transformed natural phenomena into wonderfully beautiful pieces of music. E.g., the flight of the bumblebee (Nikolai Rimsky Korsakov). Rain drip prelude (Chopin). Peter and the Wolf (Serkej Prokofiev), etc.
Einaudi probably did not think of the butterfly, but of something else. Yet it is curious how his music fits on the flight of a butterfly.
My eyes and my ears follow the butterfly, and the field of flowers seems endless. It almost seems as if I am flying with the butterfly. As if I taste the nectar and the energy of it penetrates into my muscles. After a few more flights she shakes me off. I end up back in my chair with the earphones in my ear.
The butterfly disappears from my field of vision. It is as if a dancing dot disappears on the horizon. The beautiful harp music played by Lavinia Meijer turns into a piece by Philip Glass: Methamorphosis.
If the world around us were to undergo a Methamorphosis, a Metamorphosis of Hell in Paradise. The impending nuclear war initiated by paranoid idiots, who understand nothing, but nothing at all of the loneliness of our wonderful planet. Only being concerned with power and money. Humanity is a lost animal, who got the Paradise thrown into his lap.
Ah, fortunately the butterfly doesn’t know either. While the enchanting harp of Lavinia Meijer resounds in my ear, I remain only a silent hope.
Hope carried by the flight of the butterfly.
