The Man and the Butterfly

Shades of Gray:

The Man and the Butterfly

I sent my mom a copy of the last post. She’s never read my blog before. Come to think of it, she’s never seen any of my writing. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, she does. She’s asked more than once. I always say no. Too personal, I reckon.

But I thought she’d enjoy seeing what people thought of her writing. Maybe make up for the lack of emotion I showed when she first handed me the story. I copied the post and the 40-some comments and sent them her way. Should have been more careful. Nestled between all the heartfelt reactions, one line, her biggest fear.

“Your mother wrote over and over again that she already knew you were gay, but she placed so much importance on the ridiculous act of "coming out" that she ended up causing years of pain.”

“Should I have asked?” came her voice on the other end of the line. Sad, full of pain.

Could have kicked myself for being so careless.

“No, you did the right thing.”

“But maybe that reader is right. Maybe I should have just said the words?”

“I don’t think that would have been a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t speak for anyone else but I’m glad it happened the way it did. I’m happy it came from me. My decision. My coming out. There’s comfort in that.”

“You know why I waited right?”

“I think so.”

“There’s a story…” She paused. “Can I tell you a story?”

I smile. My mother, her storytelling voice. For a minute I’m eight years old again.

“A man was strolling through a garden when he came across a tiny cocoon. He carefully placed it in his hand and took it home with him. He wanted to see it as it turned into a butterfly. He wanted to witness the beautiful transformation.

For days nothing happened. Then, a tiny quiver. He could see a small opening, not bigger than a dot at first. Then it grew wider. The man watched as the young butterfly tried to find its way out, pushing its weight against the surface in an effort to break free.

He watched for hours, mesmerized by nature. He imagined the moment the butterfly would finally break loose, spread its wings, fly. He wanted to be there when its wings, kissed by the sun, first reflected light with all the colors of the rainbow.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The butterfly wouldn’t move. It was as though it was unable to go on, as if it had gone as far as it could. The man then took a pair of scissors and cut the cocoon open, helped the young butterfly out.

He waited for it to spread its wings, fly into the horizon, but that never happened. He looked closely at the little creature. Its wings were disheveled, its body bloated.

What the man didn’t realize is that in an effort to help the young butterfly it had condemned it to a life of sickness. Because nature had designed the process so that when the young butterfly squeezed out of the cocoon, fluid would rush from the body into its undernourished wings.

What the man didn’t understand is that flight would only come after struggle. Without it, the butterfly was sentenced to a life without purpose, without health.”

My mother ends her story, her voice going back to normal.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her again. Then made up and excuse and hung up. Tears in my eyes. A mother can sense that, even thousands of miles away. Even through a phone line.