My favorite journal is a blue hard bound with the proverb on the cover
~Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly~
I’ve always loved that. There is something in that idea that had always resonated. The earliest entry in that journal is September 2010. But there are some pages torn out so I may have had it a little longer than that.
But I have owned it for at least six years. And for six years that quote has crossed my vision and stirred up something in me that I never quite caught, an idea never proper
All of that up there was written back in September 2016. I can’t remember why I didn’t finish it. The highest probability is I got preoccupied with something else and it just didn’t get finished. My writing discipline is obviously less than impressive; the chances of me picking up something I started after I started it are not historically good.
I am trying to change that; my writing discipline that is. More words, more work, more reading, more intention. Part of that is sitting down to write even if I don’t know what kind of time I have and coming back to finish that which is left undone. So here I am picking up this forgotten, unfinished thing. Honestly, the feeling isn’t that unlike realizing you left a load of clothes in the wash and crossing your fingers when you go to see if the clothes are stinky or not; can you continue with the task where you left off or has it sat there too long and you have to start over?
As an aside, I really fucking hate it when I do that. And, between me and you, I do that shit. All. The. Time.
So anyway, I pull up this barely a thing entry and decide to work on it because that fits in my new writer’s discipline. And I read it. As suspected, I have no idea where the fuck I was going with any of that thought right there. In self confirmation (which isn’t always the positive mojo you think it is), the first thought that came to my head was, “See, this is why not being able to finish something when you originally start it is useless. This stealing seconds where you find them to write is just ridiculous.” And in personal buffoonery triumph, I almost left it at that.
Okay, in full disclosure and appreciation of anyone other than me or my mother reading this, there is not some amazing trick of turn in your future with this little post. Oh sure, I think I have found some pretty nifty insight going on here. But if you’re waiting for a, “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker, this is the wrong post. Just didn’t want you to think there was more to this than a 0300 coffee and chat session with myself going on here. Of course you are welcome to stay. You always are. I’m just saying…
Anyway, instead of hitting delete and reinforcing seemingly justified, but obviously inaccurate, habit development, I did something unorthodox – I trusted the work. I looked at it again and tried really hard to think about what I was going to say next. For the life of me I couldn’t remember.
But, a new idea did occur to me…whatever I was going to say then is not the same as what I would say now. It may have been close, but what I know now could not have been the same as then. Too much has happened since I first started playing with the idea. There’s been a ton of growth and understanding. A lot of forgiveness and releasing. A lot of tears and swearing. There’s just been a lot…
Inside a chrysalis, a caterpillar digests itself from the inside out. Literally. Let’s just mull that fact for a moment. This creature is so compelled to become what it is supposed to be that it will take the the same stuff it used to digest food and use it on itself. That is some gangster level shit right there. And, with the help of some witty scientist somewhere, it gets cooler. The byproduct of this process is a bio-matter called “imaginal cells.” I have no idea who decided that they should be named that, but I would totally pick up their bar tab to hang out for a night. These imaginal cells have the ability to become nearly any type of cell. And that’s what the butterfly does. It takes the broken down stuff that’s left from its previous existence and creates wings. Wings.
I kinda feel like I should have more to say at this point, like I need to bring the idea full circle. But that’s another discipline I am trying to respect – and the truth is, the butterfly executes the perfect mic drop. And who am I to see it as anything other than that?
Except I will leave you with the “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker because honestly, Paul Potts killed that shit and he deserves it.