Apparently the Greeks had one name for “spirit” and for “butterfly”: psyche. This is not, as Elvis would have used it in 1988, a term of mocking. “Sure, you can have one of my smokes …. Psyyyyyyyyyyych!” Notice there is no “e.” Psyche does not deny, yet she does not embrace. Psyche does not know she is beautiful, alluring, and breaking hearts wherever she turns.
Without trying to be, Psyche is trouble. This much Venus knows, but when her son Eros (aka Cupid, aka Amor — this dude is shifty) goes to trick Psyche into falling in love with Ugly, he inadevertantly falls in love with Psyche himself. Passion and romance tangle in near-tragedy until Zeus finally allows them to wed, producing bliss. And so it is.
Funny as it seems, my passions get crosswise of my romantic self sometimes. Notice that intellect is nowhere to be found. Rationality is useless in this realm. Ultimately what is needed is devine intervention. But when that comes, oh buddy, look out for bliss.
