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Carol Lynn Pearson copyright 2009
THE END OF THE WORLD OR THE BUTTERFLY?
“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.” --Richard Bach, Illusion
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I sat reading in my garden, hoping the few last flowers would soften the stories in my newspaper: war, famine, drought, economic collapse, the dark promises of history. “Choose a different promise.” I looked around. Nothing moved but a butterfly, and I know butterflies can’t talk. “Of course we can’t,” said the butterfly, all shades of gold, landing on a nearby leaf. “But your soul can. ‘Soul’ and ‘butterfly,’ are the same word in Greek. Look at me and listen to your soul.”
Weird. But less horrible than the words printed on the dead leaves of trees that rustled in my lap. “Okay,” I said, “what’s the promise?” “Your past is the caterpillar, your future is the butterfly.” “Mine?” “All of you. The world.” “How so?”
“When I was a worm, I thought as a worm, and I gorged myself, eating everything in sight, leaving a path of destruction, getting fatter and fatter.” “We’ve been doing that, for sure!” “Then I went into my chrysalis stage–darkness, destruction, everything falling apart.” “Us too!” I slapped the newspaper. “War, famine, plague, banks going broke!” “My caterpillar self thought it was the end of the world!” “The end of the world,” I nodded. “Yep, that’s what it feels like.” “But what the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls a butterfly!” “Wow! That’s–really nice!” “I didn’t make it up. One of you did. One of your imaginal cells.” “Our--what cells?”
“Listen carefully,” said the butterfly. “When the breakdown inside the chrysalis is finished and the caterpillar is nothing but ooze...” “Gross!” “...An amazing process begins. The genetic code shifts. Special cells–brand new cells–seem to come out of nowhere. Scientists call them ‘imaginal cells.’” “Do they imagine?” “They do. They hold the vision of a new creature. The old cells see these new ones as enemies and try to kill them.” “Like we kill our visionaries?–Jesus–Ghandi–Martin Luther King, Jr....” “Very much like. The old cells are frightened and want to maintain the old caterpillar order. But their day is done. New imaginal cells keep popping up inside the chrysalis--here, there, everywhere. Each holds a piece of the new vision. They begin to communicate.” “Wow!” “When there are enough of them, when there’s a kind of ‘tipping point,’ all the imaginal cells unite into a grand butterfly design. Each cell gives its small vision into the large vision–and a new thing is born. A butterfly!”
I studied the gorgeous creature on the leaf before me. Impossibly beautiful, iridescent, magical. “We–can do that?” I asked, nearly breathless. “It’s in process now.” “But everything I see...” I pointed again to the newspaper. “Don’t believe everything you see. Old caterpillar cells terrified of their end. Don’t fight them. Outshine them.” “How do I become one of those–imaginal cells?” “You choose to. And you realize you have chosen to when you find yourself not only recycling the newspaper but recycling the news. Create a new ending to each terrible story you read and hold that ending in your heart. Choose one or two of the terrible stories and find something you can do to bring about that new ending, alone or with others. Today on earth huge networks of imaginal cells talk to each other as fast as their fingers can go. They meet in neighborhoods. They fly across oceans and hold conferences. Alone and together they magnify the vision.”
“But what do I do?” “Mostly just be kind. See everyone as the same kind. Do not ‘unkind’ anyone.” “Even those who are not kind to me?” “Especially those. See them as the brilliant imaginal cells they might be.” “Isn’t there, like, a checklist or something?” “Go inside your own mind and listen. You might hear something like–‘Love green… Love your neighbor… Wash your clothes in cold water… Read something beautiful… Drive less, walk more… Do not live in fear, choose love even when you’re afraid… Take your own bags to the grocery store… Do unto others as you would have them do to you… Turn out the lights when you leave a room… Be silent for part of the day… Listen to nature… Eat much more from plants than from animals… Love your enemies… Feed the hungry…Find the gift you came to give this world and give it confidently… Imagine the world as you would like it to be… Imagine the butterfly breaking from the chrysalis… Imagine flight… Like this...”
The butterfly lifted her wings, fluttered friendly for a moment, then was gone. “Wait!” I said. “I’m not ready.” “I’m still here.” The voice was now in my mind. Ah, butterfly and soul the same. “I’m always here,” said my soul. “Ask me anything you want.” We sat in the garden for a while and talked. Then I got up and recycled the newspaper and went in to do the one thing my soul said to do today. My step was a little lighter than before. The air was a little brighter than before. Or–did I just imagine it?
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