And the world whispers to me…

Treasure is uncovered by the force of the flowing water, and it is buried by the same currents -- Excerpt from the Alchemist, by Paolo Coelho

 

  

Today is my 14^th post*.  I’m a quarter of the way towards reaching my goal of completing 52 entries—one a week for a whole year.  When I first started this blogspot, I wanted to chronicle my life as a legacy for my young son. It was also a way to discipline myself and to assess whether my voice was louder than a whisper.   

When I first started my career in 1999, I thought about where I saw myself ten years later.  I knew I wanted to write. Millions of thoughts swam like schools of cobalt colored fish fighting against currents.  The ideas swam in my head with nowhere to go—migrating with no purpose.  All I wanted was to sit patiently in a boat with a pole hanging over the side and wait for one thought to catch.  

The funny thing about life is that those currents made the boat list from side to side.    And I was sitting, passively fishing, when I should have jumped into the dark waters with a net in hand and let the waves take me—no compass, no safety net—to unchartered places.  But I stood back and stayed on the shore and shallow waters—clear and crystal blue, under the aegis of palm trees and atop familiar sands—and built a life and a career I love. 

I’ve been at my job now for 11 years.  And I’ve always told colleagues and friends who have asked me if I had ever wanted a change that I have woken up every day looking forward to going to work.  It’s an anomaly, they said, to feel challenged and have fun after such a long time at a job.  As part of a communications team for an international office, I was constantly creating, learning and traveling.  I’ve built an arsenal of skills—graphic design, web management, technical writing and project management.  

When I turned 36, I hit an odd mental milestone. I woke up feeling…stuck.   It was as if the élan with which I strode into my office with my unsweetened iced coffee in hand had diminished.  Where was the bitter punch of my morning brew? 

Photoshopping My Life 

In college, I did a research paper on acrhomatopsia –true colorblindness.  Those afflicted with this disorder see the world in shades of gray. Oliver Saks, in his book Anthropologist on Mars, highlighted the case of a painter, who could no longer perceive color.   He suffered from a cerebral (rather than a physical) version of the disorder.  In other words, his eyes worked, but the rear part of his brain, or the occipital lobe, which interprets the quanta of light that filters in through the rods and cones, was damaged.  What an ironic blow it was to his soul to no longer be able to translate his vision—in its firework of hues and light—onto his canvas.  His mental palette had dulled. 

On April 6, the morning after my birthday, I thought about Jonathan I., Saks’ case study in his book.  In losing his ability to perceive color, he had lost not just inspiration to continue his craft but also his appetite for food and to love.   But this painter adapted to his disabililty and found a way to paint in color what he saw in grays.  He continued to create. 

I felt deflated.  Jonathan I. managed, in spite of his impediments, to fulfill his dreams.  What was I doing with mine?  Would I wait until the end of my life to tick off the items on my bucket list?  Would I ever have the time now with a family and a career? 

There I was with full mental and physical acuity, a family, a job and close friends—and I was bemoaning my lot.  I flung my arm over my eyes, as if to shield myself from a world that I perceived had lost a bit of its luster.  It was the first morning in 11 years that I did not jump up before the second snooze of the alarm to get ready for work.  Instead, I turned on to my left side and cuddled with my son.  The smell of sleep, sweat and baby powder comforted me. 

In graphic design, if an image I was working with was dim, I could brighten it up on Photoshop.  It was an easy fix.  I could look at a design or a photograph and understand what was missing.  I could see the big picture, and then paint by numbers…filling in the details.  But with my life, I had no tools to remove the blur or to adjust the levels until life refocused into sharpness again.  What was lacking?  What did I want for myself?  It was difficult to talk to anyone about this ennui.  Even I had a difficult time empathizing with me.  

Snap out of it. Snap out of it.  Just snap out of it.  But how?  This was my morning conversation in front of the mirror.  I needed to ignite the fading spark. 

The butterfly effect 

I believe in signs.  It’s a funny concept for one who has always lived in the world of science.  Why one can’t have faith in both, though, I have always wondered.  This duality is my own brand of spirituality.  Science teaches us to open our minds to all possibilities; signs force our eyes to open wider to them.   

A butterfly flutters its wings, for example; it hovers over my hand.  I know that such small actions—its flight—could affect and lead to a larger event in a dynamic system.  It’s a precept in chaos theory.  It’s also terrific precept for living life.  No matter how minute, how inconsequential—what each of us does ultimately matters.  

When I see the orange and black wings of the butterfly, I may also see a sign—a way in which the world whispers to me.  I may ponder a question endlessly, and the clue to the response may be in the seemingly random visit by the fragile insect sucking nectar from a crimson geranium.  

I have always loved butterflies.  It’s such a prosaic creature to admire.  Nevertheless, it has also been one that epitomizes best the idea of transformation and ephemeral beauty—and of inspiration. 

When my husband Skerdi and I were looking for a place to hold our wedding, we evaluated 6 different sites.  The first place I visited, Meadowlark Botanical Gardens, was the only one that spoke to me.  When I walked in, there were two red Adirondack chairs facing outwards towards the copse of trees at the distal end of the grounds.  In between the seats, staked into the earth, was a large cast iron butterfly.   I knew we were getting married there.  It had been an easy decision. 

When our wedding took place, it had rained for a whole week (and up to the last hour) before our ceremony.  But when Skerdi and I stood in front of each other, reciting our vows in both Albanian and in English, a butterfly flitted about us as the clouds parted.  The butterfly played under the sun that shone for thirty minutes before disappearing behind layers of rain.  

Interpreting and Interpretive Signs 

This past May, my supervisor handed me a new assignment—to design an interpretive poster that focused on the collaboration between my office and the Eden Place Nature Center in Chicago.  The partnership concentrates on conserving the Monarch butterfly and its spectacular migration through community outreach, education and preserving urban habitat.  To get an idea of what the Center was about, I traveled to Chicago to meet with its founder, Michael Howard. 

Eden Place Nature Center is located in Fuller Park, the smallest neighborhood in the city.  It is a three-acre parcel of land that had been part of the stockyards and that was once considered the most lead contaminated place in the city – if not, the entire United States.  Michael Howard and his wife, Amelia, wanted life to change in their neighborhood, and green space was the answer.  With the help of neighbors and an army of volunteers, over 40 tons of concrete, debris and trash were removed.  Then, he led the creation of ecosystems—miniature wetlands, prairie grasses, and woodlands.  Vegetable gardens—yielding summer squash and fat tomatoes—were also planted.  Soon the land had been transformed into an urban oasis, a haven for the community but also for a variety of wildlife, like the Monarch butterfly. 

When I visited in the Spring, the prairie habitat was just about to bloom in full.  Butterflies were everywhere.  They played in the warmth of the May sun and tickled the pages of my notebook.  As Michael described his work and how he brings schoolchildren to traipse through his paradise, where they learn basic ecology and biology, such as the life cycle of a Monarch butterfly, I felt the stirring of excitement.  Michael talked about the importance of teaching a child to respect life.  I thought about my boy—my 2 year old Sebastian.  I imagined us peering closely—heads together, eyebrows furrowed—to look on the underside of a leaf of a milkweed plant to count caterpillars.   I thought about Michael Howard and his pursuit of a dream of changing the conditions of his surroundings in spite of the seemingly insurmountable odds.  You must meet him to understand his light, his force.   He is transforming, inspiring.  

At the end of the day of that visit, Michael looked at me and said, “You’re part of the family now.”  And then he enfolded me into his embrace.  Something dynamic was stirring in my soul, and my ideas were spinning.  It was the butterfly effect.   

I was going to create an interpretive poster – no more than 2 feet by 3 feet–and I had to write and design the whole thing.  The focus: the conservation of the Monarch butterfly.  It was a sign. 

I returned home—renewed and reinvigorated by the project.  Though my part was small—to create a poster—I felt I was contributing to the awakening of minds.  Children and adults could read about the Monarch butterflies and be part of a conservation team. 

What I didn’t anticipate, though, was how it would open my mind as well. Drafting the text for the poster reawakened my passion for writing.  What was strange was that I always write at my job, but this project brought that love for the craft back to the surface. I was back on the listing boat with ideas swimming in the currents below the waves. 

The World Cup and a world of wonders 

This past summer, I, along with a couple of colleagues, started a bracket around the World Cup.  The prize was $320.   There were 32 participants, including my husband and my father-in-law, who won.  For him, the prize was so much sweeter, for he had never won anything so grand in his life.  The amount was three times his monthly pension back in Albania.  For my husband, the World Cup was an opportunity to enjoy football with his father.  For me, it was an opportunity to write. 

Every day of the month-long Cup, one of my two co-organizers or I would send out a daily email/blog.  The idea was to keep the level of enthusiasm high across our betting pool.  My colleagues are both fantastic writers and well versed in the history and the statistics of the game.  With nothing noteworthy to offer, I decided to share life in my household during the World Cup with others.  Can you imagine Albanians, a Filipina and a toddler together?  It was chaotic, emotional but also a very deep well of anecdotes. 

During that month, we also raised butterflies, painted ladies.  I wanted to extract from Sebastian a sense of wonder and to instill a deep appreciation for life.  It was the Michael Howard way of teaching—with energy and enthusiasm.  The company that sold the caterpillars warned us that only 6 out of the 12 caterpillars would survive the three weeks of nurturing.  

As we watched nations vie for the top spot  Sebastian witnessed caterpillars munch their way through the food and fall sleep in their chrysalis forms.  When Spain hoisted the trophy at the end of the World Cup, my son shrieked as the butterflies–all 12 of them–emerged.  A few days after the transformation, the entire family gathered out on the balcony to free them into summer skies.  It has been a couple of months, but Sebastian still remembers his first science project.  On our daily walks or when we spent time out on the balcony, where we take our afternoon snacks, he’ll often ask me where the “flutterflies” are.  

From Interpretation to Inspiration 

“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” – Excerpt from the Alchemist, by Paolo Coelho 

My husband and I wonder constantly about what Sebastian will become when he grows up.  What will he dream about?  Which stars will he stretch to reach?  Will he remember the days of raising butterflies and watching the World Cup?  Will he wonder if mom ever dove into the dark waters of ideas or did she just sit by and let sunset after sunset sink into the horizon? 

Even though I have started writing posts—many of which are about Sebastian’s toddler adventures—this literary journey is mine.  I am pursuing my dream, held at bay for over a decade—maybe even more.  It took creating a sign to see the sign.  The world has whispered to me: Let your voice be heard. 

Where do I go from here, you wonder?  Let’s take it post by post.  Or maybe we just let the waters lead me to the unexplored places. 

Swim with me. 

(See AMUSE BOUCHE page for more posts.)