t

I was astonished, and felt weak inside. I couldn’t imagine what Dr. Wendy could tell me that might impact our long-term relationship. I stood before her riveted to the ground until she urged me to sit beside her on the porch. The seat was a rocker, together we rocked back and forth the night air refreshing after the heat of the day. She took her time as if she was seeking for the right words; then she spoke,

“My first secret is my heritage.” She handed me a small framed photograph. “Look at this picture of me with my parents. My mother is Caucasian and my father black. By some fluke, I inherited my mother’s looks and so most people see me as a gringo. That’s fine by me but know that if I were ever to have children they might well inherit my father’s looks. They would be handsome but not white. Some people couldn’t live with this thought. I want you to think about it.”

Wendy’s secret surprised me and I soon bid her “good night”. I walked slowly down the hill to my apartment. I regard myself as open-minded, especially as my mother is Hispanic and father very white American; but I was surprised to find myself hesitating with an uncomfortable admission that I wondered what friends and family would say. I’m glad that these foolish thoughts were soon eclipsed by my yearning for ‘my Wendy.’ By the time that I reached my apartment door I was singing for I had determined that I didn’t care about Wendy’s heritage. Skin color didn’t matter what I wanted was Wendy in my future. That hurdle vanquished, I spent the night speculating what on earth Wendy’s second secret could be.

The following day dragged slowly as I counted the hours, then minutes and finally seconds to the time when we’d be together again. When I finally walked up to her door she emerged looking the most alluring that I had ever seen her. She wore a loose wrap-around dress. On her neck hung the same magnificent amulet that I’d seen that first evening with her. She poured us lemonade made, she told me, from lemons off the tree in her garden. It was sweet with a tart overtone and most refreshing. Again, we sat side-by-side on her patio slowly sipping our lemonade and gazing out into the night. She touched my hand and spoke,

“My second secret is my healing power. I explained to you about body, mind and spirit, that’s my secret. I administer to the mind and activate it to heal the body.”

I took a gulp and tried to be calm as I knew that I was about to hear her second secret. I asked,

“But how? How did you acquire this skill, this mind activation? You are going to tell me that it wasn’t in medical school, right?”

“Yes, you are right, it wasn’t in medical school!” She paused, it was her turn to gulp, “Have you ever heard of a witch doctor?”

I wondered where this was going and nodded, then seeing her look of surprise felt foolish and shook my head,

After a moment’s silence she spoke again, “People always quote stories about debilitating spells cast by witch doctors, but in reality, most of their work in their community was to heal not to cast evil spells. Often they were very effective.”

Wendy had my attention, I murmured “Yes!”

“Now think how powerful one could be if one could combine the knowledge and skill of modern medicine with the ancient powers of the witch doctor and then overlay it all with a Christian message.”

“So?”

“Well, I learnt the skill of a witch doctor from my father who got it from his father all the way back to Africa.”

She paused and took off her amulet. She handed it to me. It was smooth and heavier than I expected. I looked at it closely and saw that it was covered with hierographics and miniature images of plants and animals. I gently ran my fore-finger across its surface. Dr. Wendy smiled,

“The symbol of the power is in this amulet. It is my second secret. It has always been in our family passed down from generation to generation. It dates back to a time in Africa when my many-greats-ago-grandfather was a Juju man, or witch doctor. I always wear it when I heal, generally I wear it hidden under my clothes, You, apart from my mother who was Caucasian, are the first white person to touch it.”

That evening I e-mailed my ‘Honduran Healers’ story to Carl together with my resignation. I’d have to return to the US to wrap things up but I now knew where my long-term future lay. The third night was to be the start of my new life.

The end.

Dr. Wendy met me at her door. She had changed from her green doctor scrubs into a loose-fitting floral shift. She wore her hair uncovered, not tied back in a scrub cap as in the clinic. At this moment, seeing her silhouetted in her doorway, I realized that this woman was very beautiful. The insect chorus agreed, and hummed their eternal tropical song; while the bougainvillea, or one of the other tropical flowers, wafted sweet perfume to further immortalize the moment. She served me a simple meal of beans, sausage and rice. It was flavored with tropical spices to tease the palette. We ate outside on her patio. After the meal, she asked me about my back. I was surprised that out of all the doctors whom I had met throughout the last few days, she was the only one to inquire. What was more she seemed more interested and attentive to my symptoms than any of my doctors and chiropractors in the US.  I wondered if this could be the same attention that she had shown to the little boy with the hurt finger the previous day?  I asked myself if this was her secret?

“Maybe I can help.” She said.

She left me momentarily and returned with a towel for me lie on. I noticed that she was now wearing an unusual amulet hanging on a chain. I was about to ask her about it when she had me lie face down and the moment was lost. Then she knelt beside me and began to probe and rub with strong fingers. I was surprised at her strength, which surpassed that of my masseuse. As she worked she named each muscle, joint and bone. Her voice was low and gentle soothing me with its rhythm. This was bliss. She located my pain spots and, without my prompting, knew what to do. Occasionally I groaned, in happy surrender to the sweet pain of her fingers as they probed my body. She lingered and worked each sore ache until the pain dissolved. She located several places in my shoulders and neck which had not been giving me trouble; she gave them the same treatment. She had me roll over and gave my chest a similar work over. She even gave me a head massage working each point with unhurried hands and soothing sing-song voice.

When she had finished, she urged me to get up, and we sat side by side on the patio chairs. Together we gazed out over a field of fireflies to the Caribbean ocean beyond. The scene was moonlit with no human habitation or light to mar the sky-dome with its sparkling starry array. I felt fantastic and let myself drift gently into a place of bliss. When our mutual silence became notable, I pulled himself together and tried to thank her. She brushed me off,

“It’s what I do – I heal.” Her voice sound tired.

 “You OK?”  I asked.

“Yep, I’m OK, don’t get me wrong; it’s just that healing exhausts. I’ll be back to normal in a few minutes.”

We waited soothed by a gentle sea breeze. Then it was her turn to break our mutual silence,

 “Of course, your back was tightened in pain, but I also reactivated your liver back to full function – now you should have no problem with your gluten and lactose intolerances. Your heart arrhythmia is now regular and oh yes, you had a kidney stone which is now dissolving!”

“I’m amazed! Are you sure about all this? If you are right it is a miracle. How can I ever thank you?’

 “I don’t need thanks, this is what I do – I heal.”

“There must be something?” I dared not face her as I asked. I hoped that there might be some way that I could help this a woman who had already spell bound me. Some way that I could help and thereby get closer to her.

“Well, there is a way.” Dr. Wendy turned to face me “There is a way, Lisa needs help. She teaches seven-and-eight-year-olds in our mission school. You were to have dinner with her and her family tomorrow night. The problem is that we are short of teachers at our mission school and now Lisa’s mother in the US has been taken terminally ill and Lisa wants to visit her. You told me that you taught elementary school before you became a journalist. I was wondering if you could extend your stay a few days and fill in for Lisa?”

I was delighted; here was an excuse to stay. A way to extend my association with her. I told her that I’d call my boss and get a few days’ vacation, and, of course I’d help. I called Carl the next morning to report that the clinic was full of healing physicians and intimated that I could write a compelling piece about their collective achievements. I suggested that the clinic was photogenic and asked for a photographer. I told Carl about the school and requested a few days’ vacation to allow me to sub for week or so. To my relief, and astonishment, he acquiesced without argument.

The school was rewarding. I found that I enjoyed teaching more than I remembered. The school children were attentive and anxious to learn. The outside world intervened my pleasure when Carl’s photographer arrived. He took photographs of the tropical setting and images of the clinic with its clientele of sick Hondurans walking up the hill to its front door. He staged a portrait of the doctors standing in a row in the clinic central courtyard with the sun highlighting their heads. Dr. Wendy was notably absent. Just before the photographer left I persuaded her to pose for a photograph standing beside the road up to the clinic. It was a clever shot because it included a trail of Hondurans who appeared to be walking toward her. In addition, we took a “human interest’ photograph of the child whose life had been saved by my AB negative blood.  After all the photographer remarked,

‘You came to investigate healing and your first action was to heal!”

“Now who is the reporter?” I responded, “let’s stick to facts. Could you explain to Carl that when I’ve wrapped up the loose ends I’ll write the piece.”

That evening Wendy and I were together again. By now some of my ailments were returning. I walked slowly to her home. She greeted me at her door from which the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out onto the evening air.

“Are you hurting?” she asked.

“Well yes,” I admitted “just a little.”

“Don’t worry,” she responded “it happens quite often. The mind is a very powerful instrument.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simple! Western Medicine focuses on the physical. The doctors here focus on both physical and spiritual but there is a third ingredient.”

“What’s that?”

“The third ingredient is what I think of as the mind or intellect. Surely you have heard of body, mind and spirit? Think about it, Jefferson and Adams died on the same day, July 4^th 1826, a day selected by each man’s intellect. Or, think about the many stories of married couples dying within weeks of each other.” Dr. Wendy sighed and touched me,

“And you, your mind conceives your ailments and pretty soon your body responds by proving you right. We need to prove your mind wrong! Lie down and I’ll give you another work over!”

I lay down and let Dr. Wendy work her magic. When she had finished, she brought out freshly baked bread and cheese. We ate sitting on her porch and gazing out at the tropical night. I felt at peace. I day-dreamed, for already I wanted to take this dear woman in my arms and propose. I wondered if she would be surprised; and worried that if she refused me I’d be obliged to give up this enjoyable intimacy.

During my second week at the clinic I realized that the mission was against the very idea that there might be an unusual healer in their midst. They staunchly maintained, what Jim’s wife had, so vehemently, told me on my first day on the mainland that they were all doctors and ALL healers. They administered to body and spirit. They went further and had Jim take me aside to advise me they felt that my presence in the hospital interviewing patients was disruptive. I was asked to desist. By now I knew that I had enough material to enable me to write a compelling story about their mission. One afternoon, after school was over I sat down, with an ice-cold drink of water at my side, and wrote a piece. I gave it the title, “Healers in Honduras”. I quoted some of their success stories, so many of which involved trauma not conceivable in the USA. They were stories about people beset by poverty and violence such as: a severely malnourished and dehydrated baby who had been fed on Yucca milk, or the poor woman who, while protecting her daughter from machete wielding intruder was almost decapitated.

When I finished the piece, I re-read it. Although I knew it to be well written and that Carl would like it I knew that I hadn’t been true to myself. Now that I was no longer distracted by my health issues I could afford to focus my mind on other aspects of self-criticism. I was disgusted at myself. I was ashamed that I should take the easy path and abandon the concept of an unusually gifted healer especially when I knew that if it were true my Dr. Wendy was that person. At the time, I didn’t analyze why I thought of her as ‘my Dr. Wendy’. I determined that I’d delay e-mailing the article until I’d done some additional research; even if it would have to be surreptitious.

The next day as I walked home from school I saw my opportunity. The hospital compound was fenced with a guard protected gate. Patients arrived at the gate, by bus, on bicycle, in the backs of dilapidated pick-ups, on donkeys, by foot and some by two-seater three-wheeled “taxi”. After scrutiny by the guards they were directed to walk up the hill to the hospital. Only those unable to walk were taken by vehicle. I took to quietly interviewing the patients as they walked the hill. I armed myself with an umbrella as a sun screen and held it over patients as I walked beside them up the hill. I showered each with friendly dialogue. Many gave personal testimonies relating to Dr. Wendy’s miraculous cures. Some had come a long way at great personal inconvenience merely to see her and to have her place her hands on their bodies. The believers were filled with wonder and gratefulness.

By now I was in perfect health and hopelessly in love with Dr. Wendy. I decided to risk everything and propose. After dinner on her porch I sank to my knees and began to stutter. Dr. Wendy held up her hand,

“Before you say what I think you are about to say I need to tell you two secrets. No, it’s OK I not a lesbian or secretly married or bearer of an incurable or hereditary disease. I would like to tell you one secret tonight, the second tomorrow and on the third night, if you are still here, you may ask your question.”

To be continued

 On Monday morning, I was on my way. I flew direct from Houston to Roatan and then by taxi to the hotel arranged by Mary. I didn’t scuba because I was concerned about my health. Instead I took a glass-bottomed boat tour of the reef and spent the rest of my time lathered in sunscreen sitting on the beach people watching, or lounging in a deck chair beside the hotel pool. When I boarded the ferry for the mainland, I was ready for my assignment. Fortunately, the crossing was calm and although the crew handed out ‘barf bags’ even I didn’t need one. When I arrived in La Ceiba, a four-wheel drive vehicle from the clinic met me.

My ride was driven by Jim, one of the clinic physicians. He was accompanied by his wife. They explained that they were in La Ceiba on a monthly excursion to purchase groceries. They took me to their grocery store so that I could purchase necessities, including food for my visit as they informed me that I would be fending for myself during my stay in the clinic guest apartment.

Just outside La Ceiba, we came to an ad-hoc police check point with gun-totting, uniformed, youths inspecting traffic. Our truck was waved through without inspection. Jim’s wife explained that they believed that their pale gringo faces combined with the Red Cross on the cab doors gave them a pass. The episode made me anxious, I began to wonder why on earth I had taken this assignment. I leaned back in my seat. I wanted to disappear. From my back-seat vantage point I was able to peep out of my window to take in the evidence of poverty combined with majestic views of mountains, ocean and tropical greenery. By the time that the paved road gave way to a pot-holed dirt road, and we slowed to a bumpy crawl stopping to avoid the occasional group of cows on the road, I felt braver and began to converse with my hosts. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, my trip, where we all grew up, what brought us all together, the clinic and its mission.

Our friendly banter, coupled with the absence of additional police check-points emboldened me to hazard a question,

“There is a rumor in the US about a gifted Healer at the clinic?” My comment got an instant reaction. Jim swerved and seemed to scowl while his wife laughed nervously. Her laugh was like a disdainful chortle. She turned and gave me an angry look,

“What do you mean?’ she paused and continued with raised voice, “A gifted Healer? It’s a clinic. Of course, there are healers ALL the doctors, Jim, my husband, included, are healers. They are ALL dedicated to their mission. ALL are gifted healers, spiritual and physical!” She then dismissed me by turning to face the front. I meekly recoiled in my seat. I had begun to realize that this assignment was going to be more difficult than I had expected. I shut my eyes and pretended to doze off.

When we arrived, Jim’s wife seemed to have forgotten her ire along the road. She showed me around, helped me get settled in the guest apartment. She concluded with an invitation to join their family for dinner. Half way through dinner an urgent request for a type AB negative blood donor came over the radio. It was Dr. Wendy Heath looking for a donor with this rare blood type for a child who had been hit by a motorcycle. Although I have AB negative blood, I kept quiet.

 “Really,” I thought, “my health isn’t good. I’m too sick to give blood; anyway I’m sure someone else will step forward.”

 Dr. Jim explained that the clinic had no blood bank, and that they relied upon themselves and their visitors to give blood when an inescapable life-threatening need arose. The call came again, Dr. Wendy’s voice was breaking. She asked if a Robert Wright had arrived as his profile indicated that he had AB negative blood. I sighed as if awakened from a deep sleep, my voice was urgent, my heart beating,

“Take me to the clinic. I’m AB negative; I’ll give blood to save this child!”

Hours later, I lay on my bed in my apartment. It had all been easy. I hadn’t experienced the dizziness I had expected; in fact, I felt better than I had felt in weeks. I even wondered whether those blood-letting quacks of the past might have known something overlooked by modern medicine.

I spent the next two days talking to staff, testing my Spanish talking to patients and discretely monitoring clinic activities. My only profound observation was that Dr. Wendy’s clinic always seemed fuller and more active than those of her colleagues.

I also witnessed a telling moment when a small Honduran child, possibly three-years old, pinched a finger in a door and began to cry. His wails were loud and urgent. His mother attempted to console him. Dr. Jim and Dr. Wendy passed by and when I inquired whether the finger might be broken Dr. Jim glanced down at the child and declared that the child was bending the finger and that this confirmed that it wasn’t broken. Dr. Wendy, however, knelt beside the little boy and took the finger in her hands. She gently wiggled it and spoke soothing words. The child stopped crying. Dr. Wendy gave the finger a kiss and she and Dr. Jim passed on.

“Perhaps,” I thought, “this is why her clinics are larger than the others. A simple explanation could be that she empathizes and takes longer than the other doctors to process her patients.”

Each evening a different staff member invited me to dinner. I was enjoying myself but knew that soon I would have to call Carl to give a report. I planned to do so after dinner at Dr. Wendy’s invitation. I’m not sure why I set this deadline except, maybe, because I already felt a special rapport with her and opportunistically hoped that she was the object of my search – the miraculous Honduran Healer.

to be continued

This story is rather longer than my usual work and so I’ve split it into four posts. I hope that you enjoy it

The day that I pinpoint as heralding the change to my health and life began much like any other. That day, I remember that I arrived in the office later than usual. As I rode the elevator to the fourth floor of our building, I planned how I’d sneak in stealthily in the hope that I wouldn’t be noticed. This time my tardiness was not the result of a pressing assignment but to accommodate a visit to a masseuse recommended by my chiropractor. Her strong fingers probed and poked my back and neck for an hour. I told himself that the session helped, but  I was still in acute pain and couldn’t help myself from walking with an unnaturally stiff stance. Truth be told, I felt as though I were my seventy-year-old father rather than a young man of thirty.

Just as the elevator doors opened my stomach cramped. I wanted to clutch it but desisted because that isn’t done in a public space. Instead I paused at the doors and moved even more slowly. I speculated that the pain was either; an ulcer due to work induced worry, or cancer, or could it be the shrimp that I had eaten the evening before? The shrimp had tasted good, at the time, served over linguini and smothered in a light marinara sauce with a hint of garlic. I swore to myself that from this day forward I’d add shrimp to my list of forbidden foods along with gluten, lactose and nuts.

The receptionist, who is always on the lookout, must have noticed my arrival. I caught a glimpse of her blush as I attempted to slip past her desk. Even with my chronic ailments I knew that I struck a handsome figure. I had changed at the spa and now wore Friday casual; pressed blue jeans, polished boots and a black short-sleeved shirt to accentuate my thick black hair. Subconsciously I deduced that the receptionist, along with the bevy of other unmarried women in the office, regarded me as an eligible bachelor, one that they could take in hand and ‘cure”.  I sensed that my very indifference made me more desirable to them. The girl was smiling over her blush and stood up.

“Hey, Robert. Yes, you there, Robert Wright, good morning. Carl called about ten minutes ago; he wants to see you in his office asap.”

Now, as Carl Cole is my editor and boss, the summons worried me. It was good that the directive was immediate because this limited me to a few seconds of soul searching. My stomach began to cramp again as I hastily grabbed my note pad, and hurried, first to the men’s room, and then to Carl’s office. I had several reasons to worry. Had Carl noticed my recent writer’s block, or had he detected my boredom with my assignments? We publish a small specialist monthly magazine with a slant toward health and the environment. The truth is that I took this position because health-care issues interest me, but my heart wasn’t in it. When not preoccupied by my constant ailments I dreamt of writing my own best-selling novel. If I had been fitter I’d have quit the magazine to embrace the life of a full-time novelist. I had a nagging premonition that one day Carl would kick me out; “But not yet, Carl, not yet,” I secretly prayed as I entered his office.

 Carl was standing looking out of his window. He cut a good figure with a slightly bulging waistline, almost a full head of hair and well-tailored clothes. He turned and pointed to the chair in front of his desk as he sat behind it.

“’Morning Rob, take a seat.” Carl was always abrupt and now I found the tone of his voice reassuring and hopefully deduced that I was not about to be fired.

 “Good morning, sir!’ I said as I took a seat.

 As was his custom Carl dispensed with every day pleasantries and got straight to the point; “You speak Spanish, don’t you?”

 “Yes, my mom….” I was about to elaborate, but Carl forged on.

“You scuba dive don’t you?”

“Err yes,” I wondered where this was going. I hastily added, “I don’t get many chances to indulge; the magazine keeps me busy.” I felt pleased to have managed to sneak in this plug for myself.

“What would you say to a trip to Roatan?” Carl raised his hand as I opened my mouth to respond. “Now, Rob, a good reporter listens, so practice that skill.” He shook his finger at me and leaned forward in his chair. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve heard a report from a recent Honduran immigrant family of a missionary clinic in Honduras in which there is a gifted, perhaps miraculous, Healer. I want you to go down to Honduras and take a look; scope it out. You can fly to Roatan, take a few days off to scuba, and put your head in order, then you can travel on to mainland Honduras to see this Healer. If you decide that there is a story you shall notify the office so that we can fly in a photographer to take pictures”

“Sounds interesting!” I managed to blurt out, “Thank you sir! “Honduras Healer” makes a good headline. Can you tell me more?”

“Yes, Mary has the particulars; stop by her office on your way out! I’m glad that you’re game. I expect a stunning story.”

“Thank you, Sir. I won’t let you down! Yes, I can’t thank you enough.” I paused as I stood and walked to the door, then I turned to repeat “Thank you, Sir,” with the thought that, ‘being polite never hurts!’, but Carl already had his head down buried in reading something on his desk.

The next two days I diligently lost myself in research in an attempt to uncover more information about the Honduran mission. I learned that the clinic is located in a remote corner of Honduras. It is a place where the poverty of the people rivals that of the world’s neediest.  In that area, most people live outside with a simple hut for sleep and rain protection. Their homes are built of mud or hand-made concrete block. They have dirt floors and thatched roofs. Electricity and water, available close to the pot-holed dirt access road, are both sporadic and unreliable. I read that worldwide Honduras is ranked fifteenth on the poverty scale, however, parts of the mainland rival the poorest because the country’s overall statistic is moderated by tourist attractions like the ancient pirate haven of the Island of  Roatan.

to be continued.

A few days ago, I received an ecstatic e-mail from my brother who is an ardent lepidopterist.  He wrote:

“Yesterday I saw two butterflies mating. It was wonderful. They were Green Veined Whites. The male sprays the female with an aphrodisiac dust that is so powerful that some humans claim to be able to smell it (apparently, it smells of lemon verbena). If the female consents, as she usually does, they mate and then go on a short nuptial flight together. In the process of mating the male doesn’t just inject sperm but 15% of his body weight – a nutrition boost for the female. It includes minerals the male has processed by drinking mud. This nutritious package helps the female survive longer and lay more and larger eggs. The pleasurable exchange makes many of them understandably promiscuous and reduces the longevity of the males. I waited for an hour in an area near our house where there are lots of Green Veined Whites and finally saw the thing I had been reading about. A real delight.”

His story brings to mind the Chinese use of butterflies to symbolize love and their folk lore story of the “Butterfly Lovers.” The following day as I went about my normal activities; I came upon my own insect observation and responded to my brother as follows:

“It all began when I happened to notice a small lizard (gecko) body hanging tail down from our trumpet vines, which cover most of our back door overhead-trellis. I stared at this oddity only to realize that the lizard was dead and appeared to be caught up in the leaves of the vine. This needed investigation, so I looked more carefully and saw that the lizard was upside down because it was being eaten by a large green mantis. I could see its mouth, lethal beak-like snout and mandibles. It was working hard at its meal. I thought that it paused a moment to look at me with bulbous compound eyes. Did you know that the mantis has five eyes and antennae? There are the two huge bulbous eyes at the two outer corners of its triangular head and three smaller ‘simple’. The mouth and mandibles are located on the bottom angle of the head. 

After dinner with family, I took them out to see the spectacle only to discover that the mantis had dropped the lizard. At first, I thought that she had disappeared but then saw that she had turned and was slowly moving up into the full cover of the vine. Now, here is the shock, for on her back was the body of another mantis. They were attached at their rear ends. My son-in-law speculated that the second body might be a discarded exoskeleton, but then it hit me – this headless body, which was still attached to her rear was the remains of her mate!

Yes, I didn’t see the ritual, but of course I had to do so on line. The Internet tells me that not all mating results in cannibalism; however, it showed a film clip of one such event. The male, who is a good bit smaller than the female approaches and washes his head rather as a cat does by licking his front raptorial fore-legs and wiping them over his head. He approaches as he washes, and suddenly she grabs him. She securely grips his lower body under one of her fore-legs while immobilizing his upper body with the other one. She guides him onto her back where he attaches and starts a pulsating flow of genetic material. She, meanwhile, severs his neck and starts to eat his decapitated head. The odd part is that the beheaded male body continues to pulsate and, according to the Internet, the flow of genetic material increases after the decapitation.”

I didn’t tell my brother that the Internet article reported that the male mantis has a “mini supplemental brain” in its rear section to enable it to continue copulation even after losing its head. The statement made me wonder at the frequent allusion that men often think with their sex organs!

My brother responded with a wise crack that he was glad that he wasn’t eating lunch when he read my e-mail! He went on to speculate whether the Mantis could be personalized into a sci-fi story in which the mantis-like aliens are given feelings. He invited me to investigate what the male might be thinking. It is odd, but the Internet narrative concluded with a like speculation on the male mantis’s thoughts in his ecstatic death.  I didn’t respond for my take is that the Muslim suicide bomber comes close to the experience of the male mantis. He dies in the expectation of his virgins, while the mantis dies while enjoying his copulation.

As for the butterflies; I believe that my brother audited their copulation in vicarious enjoyment of their dance and lemon-scented aphrodisiac dust. His story comes close to that of the Chinese Butterfly Lovers.