Butterfly ( I Say Essay)
By ice rivers
Every night I fall asleep while thinking about writiing.
Eventually, a fraction of these thoughts will turn into words that stay. They will turn into writing.
Over the years, I've had many. many people read my writing. They compliment me by saying "you should be a writer."
I tell them "I already am a writer. What you just read is what I wrote but thank you anyways".
No, I don't. I just THINK that because what I'm thinking doesn't turn into words that stay. What I'm thinking tends to disappear unlike what I'm thinking right now that is being converted into writing that you can read to prove that it's more than a thought.
It's an essay.
An essay is when a writer writes about what he/she is thinking.
I consider myself primarily an essayist.
If I'm gonna write about butterflies for example, I will write about what I think about butterflies while I'm thinking about them.
I remember the first time that I saw a cocoon.
I thought it was a giant spider web.
I went back and told my grandfather about the giant spider web. He came over and took a look. He assured me that it wasn't a spider web. He told me to keep my eye on it but don't touch it.
He went back to sleep.
I went back to keep my eye on it.
I noticed movement inside of the notweb.
Something was trying to get out.
I helped it out.
A butterfly of all things.
It started to fly away and then fell to the ground where it remained, flapping its wings.
I went back and told my grandfather what happened.
He asked me if I touched the "cocoon" which is what he called the notweb.
I admitted that I had.
He told me that the butterfly would never fly again because his wings weren't strong enough. It needs to exercise its wings by fighting to escape the cocoon. If the wings don't get enough exercise, they are to weak to work and the butterfly will fall to the ground.
Decades later, in remembering the lesson, I began to apply it to my writing and to my thinking.
When I'm thinking about writing it's all about the cocoon with the writing inside. Everytime I force open that cocoon, the writing becomes wounded.
It may fly a little bit but it will never soar. It will never be truly free.
The writing is forced.
The writing has to emerge when it is ready.
I've been thinking about writing an essay about a butterfly for a long time.
Apparently today it was ready to begin its journey.
The struggle had beeen long.
This emergence came easy.
Let's see if it soars.
Let's see where it goes