And each of her friends holes up inside the silk hideaway
she made, and when she comes out, she simply smiles, flaps her wings at the
caterpillar, and flies away, not bothering to answer any of her questions. All
the caterpillar wants to know is what is going to happen to her, and no one
will tell her. And so, she vows to go back, herself, once she is a butterfly,
and tell the other caterpillars what happens in the cocoon.
The caterpillar gets older, and she tries very hard not to let
what she doesn’t know bother her, tries not to think about her coming time in
the cocoon or having to become a butterfly. Finally, when she attaches herself
to her favorite tree limb and begins to spin, she concentrates on remembering
every moment, every feeling, and every thought. Once her cocoon is finished,
and she is curled inside, she falls into a state unlike anything she has ever
seen or heard. She is both completely surrounded and protected by her
chrysalis, and completely expanded to the entire universe. She cannot move, and
yet she travels everywhere.
Then she returns to her body, but it is no longer her body.
She is cramped inside and must stretch out her wings. Her wings? Where did they
come from? She does not know, but she does know that once she moves them, she
will break out of the safety of the chrysalis. She knows she cannot stay any
longer, because there is not enough room. It was only a temporary home, and she
has grown out of it. And so, she stretches her wings, and the silk tears. She
feels a breeze catch beneath, and she feels such a desire to let it carry her
away. She closes her wings and opens them again, the last strands breaking as
she rises into the air, leaving behind her favorite limb.
Below her, a little caterpillar gazes up. “Butterfly,” she
calls. “Butterfly, what was it like in there?”
The butterfly considers how to answer, but she has no words
to describe, and already she has forgotten her old life as a caterpillar, and
what it was like to change inside the chrysalis. She is about to tell the
little caterpillar exactly this, when another breeze floats up beneath her and
pushes her far away.
So, the moral of the story is that you can’t know before it
happens, and even if you wanted to go back and tell, you can’t explain. At the
heart is the basic unknowability of life’s mysteries, such as death and
puberty, and of transitioning into another stage of life, such as marriage or
parenthood or being a homeowner. What can you tell someone who has never had to
care for an ailing parent? If you died for a moment, would you be permitted to
speak of it?
As writers, we believe that, as much as we each have mystery
and unknowability, a lifetime of moments we cannot quite describe, all of these
experiences are shared experiences. Because you might never have been a father,
but you can remember how your father looked at you, or maybe you have a nephew
you take care of often or a pet or neighbor child who falls under your
protection. We might not have experienced the exact thing you have, but we can
create an algorithm similar enough to share, and still understand that those
feelings and memories are not ours, that they belong to someone else. We can
continue to reach out to others, hoping, so deeply, that maybe, just maybe, we
can share with others our own best stories, hoping they can, perhaps get it.
And for those of us who are really idealistic, we believe
that our craft can change people, or at least begin to change people. Maybe we
can help people see that Black Lives Matter, or that marriage is a civil right,
or that speaking harshly to your child does not help, but only makes that
person feel worse. Oh, sure, we also want to entertain. And, true, there are
those that write not to expand the goodness, but to explore the darkness or to
fulfill a desire we might have to cheat, steal, kill, or violate some other
rule in the top ten. But even then, isn’t the person exploring the experience?
Creating a shared experience with the reader? Surely, this is true.
When I think about all that is not said about marriage or
working or even the experience of knowing that people do not like you and do
not see you as a person simply because of the way you look, what you believe,
or whom you choose to love—we have so much more to share. So much more to say.
Sure, there are already so many books just waiting to be opened and read. This
does not mean that there are not more people with brilliant books waiting to be
published, waiting to be written. There are always more words. You are allowed
to have more words. You are allowed to stretch your voice, as the butterfly, no
longer a caterpillar on the outside, was allowed to stretch her wings. You can
pause, if you choose, to speak to the caterpillars, or other butterflies, or
ants, bees, worms, flowers, leaves—you can share with whom every you like and
listen to whomever you like. Do not think that there are any limits to whom you
can speak or from whom you can hear. It is all possible.
And if you didn't think anything was possible, here we are on our wedding day.
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