bmichaelswanson.com » A literary blog

If you’d like to read it, please email me at societyagainstgravity@yahoo.com or comment, or facebook me, or call me.  A message in a bottle is a low percentage form of communication.  I won’t wait by the shore.

There are a great many stories about caterpillars with low self-esteem.  As they go about the ordinary business of their days they are mocked and rejected by the other creatures of the forest.  Simple attempts at friendships leave them so world-weary that eventually they shut themselves up in a chrysalis for a long nap. 

            After some time the caterpillar awakens to the amazing revelation that they now have brilliantly colors wings and that they can fly!  With great joy, they take to the air over their forest home.  The writers of these stories often take great care that the caterpillar-turned-butterflies fly near the very creatures that mocked them early on.  These fickle friends now praise the beauty of the butterfly and beg her to play with them. 

This is not one of those stories.

            In fact, I feel it is my responsibility as a recorder of this tale to tell you that becoming a butterfly or a swan or simply more beautiful does not solve all of one’s problems.  These changes come with problems of their own.  Though Danielle was one of the most beautiful butterflies I’ve ever had the pleasure of speaking with, she was very unhappy.

            Danielle was a newly emerged butterfly with blue and purple wings that had a metallic sheen that would radiate a faint glow of these colors when the sun shone upon them.  The fact that she had become a butterfly so suddenly had come as no surprise to her because, unlike butterflies in nearly all other stories, Danielle’s parents had prepared her well in advance of the change.  I can only suppose that caterpillars in most of the butterfly tales are orphans, left to fend for themselves outside of the society of other caterpillars and are therefore wholly unprepared for this shocking transition.

            Danielle had very loving parents that had done the best they could to prepare her for life as a butterfly.  It certainly helped that they were themselves butterflies.  They told her it was nothing to be afraid as they helped her into her chrysalis (though she somehow already knew how to build one, as all caterpillars do, orphans or not).  They had often told her how she was a beautiful caterpillar when she was growing up.  No, as I mentioned earlier, becoming a butterfly was the beginning of Danielle’s problems, not the end of them. 

            One hot summer day as the newly-emerged-butterfly Danielle was down by the pond enjoying the cool of the grasses by its edge, there was a rustle in the reeds as a breeze blew across the pond.  So as to not lose her balance of the leaf on which she now rested, Danielle opened her silvery wings and righted herself just in time.  A young frog nearby noticed the glow of purplish blue sunlight and croaked very rudely to Danielle, “Nobody likes a show-off.”  Before Danielle could respond, he had dived into the water of the pool. 

            “A show-off?” though Danielle, “Is that how everyone sees me now?”

            Danielle was stung by the frog’s words.  Though he was now a frog, a few months earlier he had been a tadpole.  His transition from being something that only swims to being something that can swim and hop and breathe air was not so unlike Danielle’s transition from something that can only crawl to something that can walk and even fly.  If he had thought about it longer than the time it had taken to make such a foolish comment, he might have found much joy in discussing his recent change with someone who might just understand.

            As it were Danielle was very much in need of the company of friends.  She set off for the Beavers’ dam just across the pond and a bit down the stream.  She found them busy mending some spots in their home that had been damaged by the heavy rains of the night before.  Mr. Beaver was all a-dither, swishing his long-paddled tail from one spot to the next—muttering to himself disapprovingly all the while.  Mrs. Beaver had long given up trying to console him and was now inside fixing a lunch that Mr. Beaver was certain to refuse, given the state of things, but which Mrs. Beaver would never-the-less convince him to eat.  They were solid, predictable folk, the Beavers.   

            “Hello there stranger,” said Mrs. Beaver.

            “Mrs. Beaver, it’s me Danielle.”

            “Oh, of course dear.  Forgive me, I’ve been so busy and I’m still getting used to Danielle the butterfly.  It’s quite a change you know.  I really think that…”

            “Honey!  I need help felling this cedar and bracing the north quarter of the main infrastructure!” barked Mr. Beaver from somewhere outside the dam.

            “In just a moment dear!” came Mrs. Beaver’s exasperated reply.  “I’m terribly sorry Danielle, was there something you needed?  Mr. Beaver is in a right cross state today—more so than usual I mean,” she added with a smile.

            “Oh, no I suppose not.  I just was wondering if you thought that I…”

            “Mrs. Beaver!” pleaded Mr. Beaver.

            “Well, I should be going,” Mrs. Beaver and Danielle said at once. 

            They shared an understanding half-smile and both rushed outside, Mrs. Beaver to her husband’s side and Danielle out to the open skies.  Just as Danielle was reaching the edge of the lake, Mr. Beaver’s voice broke though with just one broken phrase, “We don’t need showy stuff around here.”  With that latest blow a couple of tiny butterfly tears dropped down into the silent lake below making a faint tinkling noise like tiny crystal glasses shattering.  To the world these tears were so very small, but the tears of a butterfly are a precious thing—as all tears are precious and important, regardless of their size, or who lets them fall. 

            This world-weary butterfly had no chrysalis to retreat to; no great metamorphosis to hope for now.  She only thought of heading home now to her mother and father.  At least they would not think her a show-off.  Danielle did not mean to show-off her beautiful wings.  She didn’t want anyone to feel badly about not having wings of their own, but yet when ever she flew she felt like creatures were staring at her with jealousy or disgust.  “They’re right,” she thought, “no one likes a show-off.”  Her heart dropped just a bit more as she thought it and her wings didn’t feel light-like-the-wind anymore.  Even as she neared her home in the sycamore tree she saw a mother and child squirrel playing below.  The little squirrel chittered something to his mother and then pointed toward Danielle.  The mother brushed her son’s paw down and averted her eyes.  Danielle wanted more than anything to be curled up at home with her mother and father. 

            But they were not home.  Danielle landed and collapsed now onto her branch and let her little precious tears fall freely now.  Her one comfort in the world now was nowhere to be found.  Just when Danielle had started to silently sob, she was disturbed by the sound of little claws on little feet dashing quickly up the tree.  They slowed as they reached Danielle.  It was the mother squirrel Danielle had seen just moments ago.  Her son was not with her. Danielle could see him looking up at them from down below. 

            “I’m sorry to disturb you,” said the squirrel, “but I wanted to apologize for how my son pointed up at you so rudely before.”

            “It’s okay,” managed Danielle, “I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

            “My son wanted to tell you this himself,” she continued, “but he was too shy to come up her to meet you.  He thinks you are the most beautiful butterfly he’s ever seen.” 

            Danielle’s heart leapt.  “Really?” was all she could say.

            “Yes, he loves to watch you fly in the morning sun each day.  He’s been telling me every day since you came out of your chrysalis.  We live just a few trees down… I’m Nora by the way.” 

            “Great to meet you Nora!” exclaimed Danielle.  “So you don’t think I’m showing off then when I fly?” she asked.

            “Heavens no.  Where would you get an idea like that?” asked Nora.

            Danielle then told this kind new squirrel friend of the events that had taken place earlier in the day, from the rude frog at the pond to the harsh words of Mr. Beaver and how Mrs. Beaver didn’t seem to have time for Danielle anymore.  She said that that had hurt more than anything because they had been such good friends when she was a caterpillar.

            “I think maybe you should go and talk to your friends,” Nora counseled. “Good friendships are often lost through small misunderstandings.”  

            With Nora’s kind words and good counsel in her heart, Danielle departed for the Beavers’ home once again, but not without flying down to thank the little squirrel that waited nervously down below.  If you’ve ever had a butterfly kiss from someone you love, then you know the bit of excitement that the little squirrel felt as Danielle brushed him lightly with her silvery wings.  “Thank you,” breathed Danielle as she passed.

            When Danielle reached the Beavers’ dam it seemed that Mrs. Beaver had finally succeeded in sitting her husband down for a proper meal.  The two of them were hunched over their fine, tooth-crafted table eating quickly (as busy beavers do), but clearly on better terms than they were before.  Perhaps you wouldn’t have known the difference, but Danielle knew them well enough to know that it was true. 

            “Danielle!  I’m so glad you’re back,” exclaimed Mrs. Beaver.

            “Indeed.  Indeed.  Good to see you Danielle,” said Mr. Beaver quickly, but not unkindly. 

            “I just had to come back to see you,” said Danielle shyly.  “I overheard Mr. Beaver say something that had me very confused when I left earlier and I just have to know if…”

            “Yes?” inquired Mr. Beaver with concern in his eyes.

            “If you still want to be my friends now that I’m a butterfly,” finished Danielle. “I don’t mean to show off and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you somehow,” rambled Danielle, but Mrs. Beaver cut her off quickly.

            “Danielle!” she gasped. “How could you think such a thing?” she breathed.

            “Well after I left I heard Mr. Beaver say something about not wanting anything showy around and I had thought he’d meant me,” explained Danielle.  Mr. Beaver looked at her with pity and compassion.

            “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said in a voice just slightly slower than is usual for him.  “I was speaking of the dam.  Mrs. Beaver had been complaining about the tree I’d chosen to reinforce the part of the dam that had been damaged by the storm,” he said.  “In my haste to get things done I’m afraid I was rather harsh with her.”  He then added, “I am sorry dear,” to his wife. 

            Danielle was so very relieved.  She then told her friends about the day she’d had and they listened with tearful eyes to every word.  Not even the very active Mr. Beaver interrupted the story once.  She finished by telling them of the new friends she had made and how she had thought they were annoyed by the fact that she was a show-off. 

            “You know that frog up in the lake has been sour since I met him, but then I hardly ever see him with any friends.  Lonely people sometimes say the worst things, it’s hard to understand I know” said Mrs. Beaver.  “Don’t take his words to heart Danielle.”  She thought for a moment and then asked, “Do you think you’re a show-off Danielle?”

            “No, I guess not,” answered Danielle.  “I mean, I never want anyone to feel badly.  I know my wings shine and glow in the sun, but I’d give it all up though if it meant that other animals wouldn’t be jealous.  I try to stick to the shade as much as I can,” she confessed.

            “That’s not an option dear and I’m glad of it,” piped Mr. Beaver.  “I’ve never met a more humble butterfly,” he declared.  “But let’s have no more of this nonsense about not wanting others to see you flying.”

            “What he means dear,” interrupted Mrs. Beaver, “is that to hide your colorful wings is to refuse a gift and more—it would be like refusing to share a gift in return.”

            “What do you mean?” asked Danielle.

            “Your beauty is a gift you give to the world,” she explained gently.  “It doesn’t make people jealous to see your shimmering wings fluttering across the sky.  It gives joy to all around you.  Sure there may be those that want to bring you down, but for every one of them, there are one-hundred that appreciate you for who you are.  Most creatures are inspired by your design.  I hear humans have even written countless stories about the wonder of butterflies.  I can’t say that I blame them—you were made for beauty Danielle.  Never be afraid to shine,” she finished.

            Danielle was too overwhelmed with gratitude to say much, but she did manage to choke out the words, “Thank you both, so much.”  She didn’t linger long at the Beavers’ as she knew Mr. Beaver was eager to return to work. 

            On her way home, Danielle did not take to the shadowy routes as she had been in the habit of doing lately.  She flew in full sun, in the glory of the summer day.  The sun shone down on her and her shimmering wings drew out of its rays the rare and unique blues and purples that were her gift to the world.  Though a person cannot make out the face of a butterfly, one could tell by the pattern of her flight and by the light and the quick looping and swooping motions she made that Danielle the butterfly beamed as brightly as the summer sun that day.

Well, it’s Sunday and my term paper…I mean story-a-week is due and like my in my college days I’m begging for an extension.  I’m sorry.  I really, really didn’t want to do this to you guys on my very first week.  I DO want to tell you a little bit about how it went though and I DID do some writing. 

I immediately started feeling the pressure of the story-a-week assignment as soon as I blogged about it roughly a week ago.  So what did I do?  I procrastinated.  It took a couple of days to come up with an idea in spare moments between activities meant to distract me.  Then I didn’t start brainstorming for two more days.  Then I didn’t actually start the writing until yesterday (Saturday).  I didn’t get far.  Tonight I really intended to just push right through till the end no matter what.  I actually did very well.  I’ve got 700 words or so right now.  That brings up another issue I ran into.  I didn’t intend to write the first chapter of a short novel for the young teen to adult market, but that’s where the idea took me.  So for your reading enjoyment I wanted some semblance of closure to this beginning of a tale, so I am NOT going to post what I have written tonight.  I will post it tomorrow.  Then I will move on to the next story much sooner in the week. 

Part of the problem is that for this project is that I have to create a whole new way of life for myself.  Though I’ve always considered writing my passion and calling, to date I probably average ten to twenty days of the year spent doing any kind of writing.  I always enjoy myself, but then I clam up and move away from it.  The longer this has gone on, the more powerful has become the dread that I feel when I sit down to write.  This I find very sad.  The time to make a change has come.  Various factors impel me to make this change NOW.  I don’t want to start after my kids have grown.  I want to write for them.  I want them to see their father chasing after his dreams and ambitions.  I DO NOT want them to inherit my fear of failure.  I’ve always known that to show/teach anyone anything, you had better be living your own advice or it won’t mean anything. 

To me I’ve said that having kids has been a saving grace and here’s the simple reason:  I’m not living for myself anymore.  I never REALLY was (no person is an island), but it’s something you can’t ignore when you have children.  I want more than anything to build them up and give them all the support and love they need to realize their passions and potential.  I realized with much trepidation, but also with firm resolve that these lessons in love begin with me.  I need to be loved and accept love and love myself and trust my own art to move forward.  I need it, and so do my wife and children.  My neighbors need it.  My friends need it.  I need to be healed of these fears so that I can become accessible to others. 

And so I WILL be continuing with this project and bouncing back from my first missed deadline.  I appreciate your grace in the matter and I hope that you’ll have patience about not getting to read my first work (especially Marysia).  And pray for me if you’re of the mind and spirit to do so.  I could certainly use it as I launch out into these dark waters.  Thanks for reading a bit more about what this project means to me and stay tuned!!

By the way, I don’t intend to post every story that I write.  I am a little afraid to put them on the blog where they are public.  So I think I will simply blog about the writing experience more and create an email group of people that are interested in reading them.  Anyone I know even a little bit I trust and am not worried about, so if you want to read my stories, reply to my blog with your email address, shoot me a facebook message, or email me.  I don’t foresee denying anyone; I just don’t want the stories public after the first one.

Well after a hiatus of holidays and then flu and colds bouts I am back and blogging.  I went back and re-read my previous posts and it seems that my last post about being a “chronic failer” was really for me just as much or more than for any of you.  I guess I’ve known myself long enough to recognize some trends.  I also want to take just a line to say thank you for the encouragement from and friend whose inquiries about my love of winter have prompted me to explain just a bit more of my winter madness.

When I was a boy there was a field behind my home, behind a fence topped with barbed wire.  I hated that fence.  I’ve always hated fences that are built to keep people out and keep people in.  I understand the necessity of them in our fallen world, but it doesn’t mean I like them.

And yet, I’ve learned to appreciate that fence somewhat.  It was a challenge—a barrier to adventure and exploration that awaited beyond.  Let me be clear here that I was not trespassing to scale this fence.  On the other side of it was the county fairgrounds; it was a large expanse of open fields, pioneer era buildings and wetlands.  All of it was open for the public to enjoy year round, but I suppose it wouldn’t have stopped me if it weren’t. 

In the winter I would grab my cross country ski equipment and a couple of carpet samples and head for that fence.  I’d throw the carpet squares over the barbed wire and toss my skis and poles like javelins into the snow drifts on the other side (gaining satisfaction from a successfully imbedded ski sticking out of the snow).  Then I’d climb the fence and plop on my back in the soft snow of the other side.  The world was now open to me.  I think with that fence conquered behind me I felt the freedom that awaited me more acutely.  There was an eagerness and a hunger that awaited me on the other side of the fence. 

It was time to explore.  I’d head for distant clumps of trees on the horizon or look for new ways to traverse the many ponds, marshes and the somewhat more treacherous river. It was never without stopping at the edge of the pines that marked the edge of the traditional fairground to survey the wintry scene before me.  Freshly fallen snow exhibits more than any other element on earth a sense that magic really does exist.  Not fairy tale magic, but deeper stuff than the day to day; stuff just beyond sight that nearly reveals itself in the innumerable sparkles that are the result of sunlight glinting off of each distinct snowflake.  Perhaps for this more than any other reason am I drawn to snow.

After a few hours of slicing my ski tracks through drifts and having my fill of the days exploration I’d almost always ski to the middle of the field on the way back to my home, unclip my skis  and lay down in the middle of the brilliantly white snow and just rest with joy and gratitude in my heart.  If you are dressed properly it isn’t really all that cold and it can be downright refreshing after all the exertion of cross country skiing.  There’s really hardly an embrace like that of the freshly fallen snow.  It is your own.  It is these times that I fell in love with the quiet of winter.  Perhaps it wasn’t merely the quiet of winter that I experienced, but also the quiet of a heart that had had it’s fill of the adventure and striving that awaited me in those solitary days. 

There are so many other memories of snow and winter that are dear to me, but that one reigns paramount to me and really shaped who I am.  To sum up my love of the season I assert that it stirs the part of my soul that yearns for exploration and adventure while simultaneously quieting that very soul with radiant joy and peace. 

So now days when I have an opportunity to go out and enjoy a good ski I view it as a divine appointment and come to it with a sense of expectation.  I know I will not be disappointed.  Nothing really beats finding a beautiful piece of land to explore with the grace of and thrill of skis, but it’s enough to pretend at it in my little lamp-lit park.  I’ll take the blessings I’m given.  That is really a learned thing isn’t it?  To find the grace that is around us.  It’s not always obvious, but I am convinced that God always gives it in such creative and sustaining ways.   I’ve found mine for the winter months.  What are yours? I’d love to hear about them.