butterfly effect
Now that I’ve been driving for almost a thousand miles, I’ve had some time to process all the change to come. After five years in the Bay, I’m moving to Iowa City to start an MFA in Fiction at the Writer’s Workshop for the next two years.
Along the road, I’ve been, of course, a whole mess of emotion reflecting on all the choices, opportunities, and coincidences, that have led me here. I’ve also been thinking about metamorphosis.
In second-grade, we raised monarch butterflies as a class. Over the course of two weeks, we watched as the caterpillars munched on milkweed, and suspended themselves beneath the leaves. I remember being incredulous that something so alien, so transfigured, could emerge in the span of mere days.
At the time, it was an easy metaphor. We were told that we’d emerge into “the real world” as some fully evolved version of ourselves. But of course, along the way, we find out how messy we really are.
Take what happens inside a chrysalis. The outer layer itself is formed from the caterpillar’s discarded skin. The caterpillar’s muscles and organs are dissolved inside out by enzymes, leaving only what is essential: the nerve cells responsible for movement, past and future.
As I head towards grad school, it’s tempting to return to this vision (even with the added gruesome detail) — that the Workshop will be some intense but beautiful process of Transformation, taking away all of the past twenty-six-ish years worth of insecurities and doubts around myself and my writing and leaving only the potential for flight.
I find myself hoping for a kind of radical transformation.
It’s a tantalizing vision — but looking back over the past few years, what growth I’ve experienced is more akin to molting. Not a clean shed, mind you. More like peeling from a sunburn. Things are falling off, but I’m not sure in which direction — am I pulling at ordinary skin whose edges have been newly exposed, or discarding what is no longer useful, revealing something healed?
This layering feels a part of me now, but I’m still not sure if it’s a defense mechanism or personality trait. As much as I can embrace the middle mushiness, this period of dissolution and goo and phantom organs, there’s a part of me that fears I am holding back from some ‘next step’ of metamorphosis, whatever that may look like.
Which is to say, this is where the metaphor falls apart.
We’re always in a state of transition. We’re always more things than one.
Maybe I’m a jellyfish, or a sea slug, or a river, and questions of solidity are no matter. Maybe there are more important things to remember than motion.
Alright, enough seriousness. Time for some sappiness.
This summer has been a whirlwind, and it’s been a privilege to spend it with so many friends, new and old. Much love to everyone that’s supported me along the way. I’m grateful for all of you. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.
I’m traveling with my friend and future classmate Sachiko, and their friend Yiann. We’re currently in Moab, UT.
980 miles in, 1130 miles to go.
Some highlights thus far:
Lounging at Lake Tahoe with Cindy, who was kind enough to join me on the first leg and see me off in Reno.
A wildlife sanctuary nestled in the desert, ten miles of gravel south of the I-80.
Northern Nevada. Breathtaking.
Visiting Jenny, who started her medical residency in SLC a month ago.
Stumbling upon a drag lip-sync contest at a gay bar in SLC.
Feeling small and insignificant in Arches National Park.
Thanks for reading <3
Jeffrey