Thanksgiving—Churchill’s Butterflies

“ ‘Thank you' is the best prayer that anyone could say. I say that one a lot.

Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding."

—Alice Walker

This month we celebrate Thanksgiving—a holiday that began when the Pilgrims supposedly sat down to a meal in 1621 with Native Americans to commemorate the fall harvest. (**see note below to consider the Native American perspective.)

It’s also a time to reflect on how we treat others and to give thanks for the right to live, love, play, work, and worship in whatever manner we choose. 

Thanksgiving is an opportune time to discuss how many people in the world do not have these rights, how historically people have been denied these rights, and what we can do to bring justice to those who have suffered in the past and those who are currently suffering.

The painter wanders and loiters contentedly from place to place, always on the lookout for some brilliant butterfly of a picture which can be caught and carried safely home.   —Winston Churchill

Winston Churchill, champion of the British victory in WWII, voted the “Most Respected Person” in England, and whose birth is celebrated on November 30, was known, despite his heroic deeds, to treat people from India, Africa, and the Arab world in a derogatory manner.

Like Churchill, our current President, through his comments and actions, demeans and discriminates against people who are trying to find a better life where they can embrace the freedoms that most people in the Western world are privileged to experience.

(** Many Native Americans call Thanksgiving a “Day of Mourning.”  A plaque at Cole Hill, the first Mayflower Pilgrim cemetery, gives voice to Native Americans and reads— “Thanksgiving Day is a reminder of the genocide of millions of their people, the theft of their lands, and the relentless assault on their culture.”)

Détente—the relaxation of strained relations  

    Churchill’s Butterflies

Their wings touch my brush strokes

with a flutter that tickles my brow.

Their pupae grow and take on new lives

as airborne creatures free to roam the earth.

Their hunger feeds on my impasto as it builds

layers that bore into the recesses of my mind.

Is the Aryan stock bound to triumph?

How do we stop the Germans?

What does Stalin really want?

How will I hold power after the war?

Should India be partitioned?

Does Clementine know when the “black dog” will strike next?

My life has been privileged—

I hold the destiny of nations in my hands.

But the simple movement of wings,

the wonder of flight, and the swatch of

color streaking across my canvas

take me to a place where lines never converge

and stillness blurs the edges.

by Jeff Key