24. Return from the Grand Tour
The Grand Tour has come to an end, and you are finally home. The trunks have been unpacked, the maps folded away, and the more interesting discoveries are finding their places among the curiosities of the study.
On the desk a handsome wooden presentation case awaits.
Inside, a small collection of insects and butterflies, things gathered along the way, each carefully preserved, each has been identified, their splendid Latin names recorded on neat little cards.
But then.. there is the Butterfly you have just placed - this one is different. Beneath it, rather than a label, you have written directly upon the backing card just a place and a date:
Florence, 1922.
You sit back and see it sitting there, and suddenly, an entire afternoon returns:
The autumn sunshine.
The leisurely walks beside the Arno.
A lovely picnic on the hillside.
The extraordinary sweetness of that fig, offered by that ridiculously handsome Italian fruttivendolo…
You smile.
The butterfly’s scientific name is of no particular importance to you. Its raison d’être has already served a higher purpose.
During the time we have journeyed together, we have spent a great deal of time learning to notice:
Not merely the agreeable things,
Not just those things we admire in ourselves or appreciate in others,
But the whole picture:
A full circle. All 360 degrees.
And a full circle includes the less picturesque parts.
The uncomfortable discoveries. The unwelcome recollections. The things we might rather not recognise in ourselves, or in people we know.
There is no requirement to find them pleasant, nor to pretend otherwise.
Yet, having noticed something, a curious temptation often arises - we feel we ought to give it a name. Having named it, we ought to understand it. And having understood it, surely something must be done about it.
But must it?
An observation is not a judgement.
Nor is it an instruction.
We may notice something without approving of it. Without understanding it. Without explaining it to anyone, and without feeling obliged to put it right.
Indeed, if everything we noticed demanded a verdict, an explanation or a remedy, we might soon become rather selective about what we allowed ourselves to see.
And there goes our full circle.
Perhaps the real value of examination lies not in having an answer for everything, but in remaining willing to look:
- to see without immediately deciding.
- to encounter something unfamiliar without rushing to identify it
- to revisit an old memory and discover something we hadn’t noticed before.
For the moment we believe we have fully understood something may also be the moment we cease to look at it.
You admire the butterfly again and close the glass case. The specimens are safely preserved. Their stories, however, remain available to be rediscovered.
Tomorrow, the little butterfly may recall the sunshine beside the Arno. On another day, perhaps that handsome fruit seller.
And who knows what else might eventually come to mind?
Some things are labelled.
Some things are lived.
