Letters from Floella
On butterflies, stories, and the art of waiting.
Emily’s Desk
The Studio
WIWD HQ
England
29th June 2025
Dear friends,
Hello again!
This week, I am writing to you in Emily’s place. She had planned to share the third and final instalment of her story, Archive of Stone — but it is resolutely refusing to settle onto the page. The story itself is written, vivid and whole in her mind, but the words, she says, are still flitting and fluttering about, elusive and uncertain. “Some stories,” she told me, “are like butterflies. You can see them in your mind’s eye, love them deeply, catch glimpses of their beauty as they drift and flicker above the page, but only with stillness, with patience, and with the gentlest attention, will the words come to rest.” I quite agree.
So while Emily is giving her attention to finishing Mira’s story, she has handed me the inkwell and quill, and I am delighted to be taking over While I Was Drawing this week.
I have just finished writing a letter to
(such a beautiful name) and I find myself rather in the mood for more correspondence. I believe I have caught the letter-writing bug. There’s something about a letter that feels like travelling: a magic carpet of paper that caries a piece of you across the world — no ticket, no luggage, just some ink and stamps.Emily has kindly agreed to let me share some of my letters here from time to time, and I hope to send them fluttering to all corners of the globe. Letters for kindred spirits, for the curious, for the quietly hopeful. If you’d like one, or know someone who might, you only need ask. I’d be most pleased to write to you1.
Now, since I’ve mentioned butterflies already — shall we linger there a moment?
Lately, Emily has been showing me her photographs and telling me about butterflies. I always listen carefully when she talks about insects (I’m really quite partial to them) and butterflies are most fascinating. Their wings carry stories, you know. Some are bright as citrus, others ragged as forgotten parchment. Each one a tiny, fluttering miracle.
She’s seen tortoiseshells in the garden and down the lane, bold orange patchworked with brown and cream, and scalloped blue iridescent edges. They’re cheerful sorts, like little lanterns that bob through the flowers. On a walk in Bridport with her mum and auntie, they found a whole colony of tortoiseshell caterpillars nestled in a silk-spun web. Wrapped like gauze around the tips of a nettle patch and busily preparing for their own bright-winged becoming.
And the commas! Oh, the commas. She was thrilled about those, their wings like ragged autumn leaves, edges frayed as if torn on brambles. There’s a shimmer to them, too, if you catch the light just right. When their wings are closed, they seem to vanish into tree bark or fallen leaves, such a clever disguise. I read somewhere that they hibernate in hollow trees or garden sheds, tucked up behind old brooms or snuggled into the cracks of bark, waiting for the world to warm again. I think they’re the introverts of the butterfly world — exquisitely scruffy, with a fondness for quiet corners (like me!).
The marbled whites were dancing amidst the grasses and flowers along the cliffs at Paulsgrove Hill last week. She said it felt like walking through a poem. Black and white wings, like ink on paper, flickering over the grasses and wildflowers, never still for long. Despite seeing dozens, they were tricky to photograph, always dancing, always just out of reach. Until she crept up on one sunbathing in the grass, wings spread wide to drink in the warmth. Such elegance!
She spotted a male meadow brown yesterday, or possibly a ringlet — soft and velvety, with dusky wings the colour of well brewed tea. No bright markings, just a deep, earth brown that seemed to absorb the light. They’re the ones you’ll often see first on a quiet path or resting low in the grass, unhurried and unshowy. Steady, grounding company. And whites and orange tips too, fluttering through the garden and hedgerows, never staying still for long. They’re all frequent visitors around here in summer — easy to miss, but everywhere once you start looking.
The peacocks are abundant, bold, brilliant, jewel-bright, basking in the sunlight. She’s always pleased to see them, like old friends calling round. The painted ladies, though, are rarer guests. She’s only seen a few, but each one felt like a little miracle. Did you know, they migrate all the way from North Africa, travelling thousands of miles to visit our gardens for the summer. Imagine that! Such delicate wings, and such determination.
There’ve been speckled woods too, over the years — dancing through the dappled light, and blues — chalk-hill and common, spotted in summer on St Catherine’s Hill near Winchester, flitting low over the wild thyme and birds-foot trefoil. Sometimes a red admiral appears, looking like it has somewhere grand to be, but happy to pause for a moment. She hasn’t spotted a brimstone, or a gatekeeper, or a small copper yet — but she keeps looking. One day, perhaps.
She’s visited the Mariposario de Benalmádena2 twice now — a place filled with fluttering wings from faraway lands where time slows down and the residents seem to know they’re being admired. Emily took lots of photographs there, of exotic butterflies and moths resting on leaves, sipping nectar, and hanging like jewels from netted ceilings. Some of those photos are already tucked into the Creative Explorer’s Gallery3, and she’ll be adding more in early July.
Emily has been worried though. Is still. The butterflies are fewer than they once were — not just this year, not just here.
Still, she keeps watching for them and wondering at their ethereal beauty. And as the summer lengthens and the winds soften, they can be found, wings catching the light before drifting on.
The world needs butterflies. Just as it needs stories. Fragile. Beautiful. Alive and dancing through the wild places, through people’s hearts, and full of possibility. You can’t force them to appear, but you can offer them what they need: time, space, attention. A little care, and a little patience — and then perhaps, they will alight.
with all my love,
P.S. The butterfly dividers in this letter (and many more of her illustrations) are available for paid subscribers, in Emily’s Ever Growing Gallery of Beautiful Imagery.
If you’d like a letter, you’re most welcome to send me a message with a question, to share something you’ve noticed, or simply request a story from my corner of the world. All I needs is your name, your postal address, and a little time to find just the right stamp….
Since I’ll be writing from within the pages of While I Was Drawing, the letters I send will sometimes be shared here — so you’ll need to be happy for yours to be included too. And, as a small kindness, I ask only that you subscribe (for free!) to While I Was Drawing in return. It helps Emily know her work is valued, and allows this little exchange of letters to keep fluttering to distant corners of the world.
Benalmádena Butterfly Park
The Creative Explorers Gallery is a collection of Emily’s favourite photographs — birds, bugs, butterflies, and other wonders — shared with all subscribers. A fresh link will be sent out by email in early July.
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Emily, What a beautiful collection of butterflies. I'm sure with a little patience the words for your latest installment will come flowing out of your pen. Thank you Floella for such a nice letter.
Thank you. So needed and sooo beautiful.