A butterfly story

Stories that land unexpectedly on your sneaker

¹

Lying there, collapsed under trees bordering the mansion of the famous one I saw a butterfly broken by the slam of a single raindrop on its wings fold and flutter as it hit a pool of water still fighting for the lift that is its nature. Two Minute Seduction, Toni Morrison

In the meantime I thought I would share a butterfly story. My growing collection of fragile stories written or spoken by other persons in the middle of crisis or joy. These are found stories—a crumpled note on a hospital bench, a misdirected text message, an overheard conversation. Butterflies that land on your sneaker or your knee or your nose so genuine there is no need to write a story around them or rewrite them. They are simple and perfect in themselves.

I was awoken by one fluttering on my phone this morning. A frantic text message by a young man, high and maybe homeless, who unwittingly wrote his life story in 44 texts. I’ll also include my response to him as it’s only fair—not my finest moment I was groggy and my thumb hurt. More about my thumb later.

Trigger alert: Extremely offensive words. I’ll black out the worst ones. I’ll put a butterfly photograph here as well. Do not scroll past it if you don’t want to subject yourself to what follows.

Butterflies that land on your sneaker or your knee or your nose. Photo by Nathan Dumlao

At this point he has called my phone, listened to my voicemail message and believes I’m Mr. ______’s female friend, Chica, or a sex worker.

In the following response I mention karate. I don’t practice karate but I do belong to a group of Zen Buddhists whose lineage date back to the Japanese Samurai. There was a time they did not accept those who didn’t practice karate. This has changed. Throughout their history samurai also studied Zen, Japanese calligraphy and the Shakuhachi—nowadays many people are interested in these practices and so they opened their doors.

I joined this group shortly after I started writing The Zen of Not Writing. To avoid disrespecting Zen Buddhists I felt the need to understand more than pop-culture zen. I’ll be sharing this journey with readers soon.

Here is my message to him which reads to me now like a bizarre incantation—it was 2:06 in the morning and I was sleepy and my thumb hurt and I tend to be an optimistic person.

As I reread these bubbles they become more and more like a poem. So much here to unpack—him—me—what the hell was all that?

Anyway. Peace Out.

The zen of not writing is to never underestimate a butterfly.

1. To be read in this order:

The Butterfly Story [[ X marks the spot! You are here! ]]

(1) Every American City Ramada on Stark

(2) Every American City Ramada on Stark (upcoming)

(3) Every American City Ramada on Stark (upcoming)