Can A Butterfly Ever Really Be Broken?

Lately, and almost on a daily basis, I have been acutely aware of the butterflies with whom I’m becoming familiar. I see them everywhere as if for the symbolism itself. They dance and flit merrily on my path and these regular encounters make me question their significance to my personal journey.

I love to teach writing, a passion that was born out of my initial and primary vocation as a screenwriter. Screenwriting has always been an incredibly joyous pastime for me. I relish developing and befriending my characters as though they are in the same room, never obstructing their path to create a great story on their own. Sometimes, I know the ending before writing word one and sometimes it evolves as my fully realized protagonist realizes something I didn’t know, taking us on an entirely different yet fascinating journey. It’s always been an extraordinary process for me and, for the most part, I feel validated and proud when I witness the end product. To write well, one has to enjoy both the solitude and the camaraderie words can provide and I’m proud to report I’m back in the head space necessary to achieve that after several years of wandering aimlessly through my thoughts, unable to commit them to paper/screen.

Every human being worth her weight in salt has challenges that life invariably holds its breath anxiously before presenting. I’m no exception. There were years, moments, and scenarios that broke my heart and spirit, made me question my very existence, and inspired me to put the pen down while slamming the laptop shut. For me, it’s quite difficult to create worlds and stories when my own doesn’t feel like the one I wanted to live to tell. So, I stopped writing and lost the most important part of who I was.

And then, one fine day, I had an epiphany. I just needed to get to somewhere “safe”.

I started searching for the perfect spot. If I kept my wits about me, I could create a space like one I had always wanted in my youth that would be dedicated to my writing rebirth and to helping the journey of other people who also emote through their words. This place of refuge needed to be unassuming from the outside, but inside there needed to be ample and endless space for me to unpack my pain and my profession simultaneously. It had to be a sterile environment, so I could dust off my dreams and clean up the cobwebs in my imagination. This new spot needed to be welcoming to those who wanted to trust me to shepherd their foray into professional writing and I craved walls strong enough to contain the power of my stories as well as anybody else’s who needed to share.

I found that space, nestled in expansive foliage and aged trees that give my hometown the character for which it’s always been celebrated. It was inviting and healing from the moment I opened the red painted door and I decorated with respect for myself and for this home that was clearly designed to house my imagination. After some consideration, I named this tiny perfection “The Treehouse” and from it, I vowed to explore all the parts of myself that made me what I was before: A storyteller who has always been more in love with the process than the results.

And things have been really great so far.

In this sacred space I call The Treehouse, like a butterfly, I have experienced a metamorphosis of sorts like the caterpillar that precedes the majesty of gaining wings for flight. Wrapped so tightly to start as though in a cocoon of my own making, I began to trust my most primal and creative instincts again. In the sixteen months I have been blessed to have an “office” as magical as The Treehouse, I have been overwhelmed by so many opportunities to insure for other writers magical journeys like the ones I once experienced on my Hollywood trajectory. These sacred interactions have served as encouragement for my words and as a nudge for me to “get back out there”. I also found in my treehouse a new appreciation for the butterflies I meet with regularity.

Actually, there are even butterflies with whom I identify now. If you consider the Zebra Swallowtail, with its bold black and white stripes making an unforgettable impression, I am reminded to embrace uniqueness. The Green Hairstreak has green wings that helps it camouflage and protect itself. To me, this quality represents the power of staying grounded and positive, which I try to do, living all of the minutes of my creative life in gratitude. And most notable, The Orange Sulphur, with its resplendent ultraviolet wings, is an encouragement to reveal my truest self, and a reminder of the beautiful things that can happen when I do. For me, that can be best achieved through my words I am learning to trust again with my full heart.

There is still a consideration or two before I fully embark on my next flight as a writer. And that is, while my wings were clipped for a long while by some things so painful they still seem implausible, I do still have the desire to “fly” with one impediment. One of my “wings” is still broken and bruised. I am afraid to flap it to its full strength and I’m not sure if it’s some residual fear of failure or the great unknown. The Treehouse gives me a space to rehabilitate, a framework to lean into all things positive again, and to dream of flying with wild, creative abandon. It’s just going to take a little more time. A wing once broken can always be fixed. It just needs to believe it can successfully hold the weight of my words with confidence. And so, I keep writing…