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Taming The Butterfly

September 7, 2016 | Callie Feyen

The summer before we went to high school, my best friend Celena and I both had this strange feeling in our stomachs. It was sort of like a giant butterfly that never fluttered, but we were sure all our nerves and sadness, wonder and excitement would ignite once those wings spread.

It was the scariest sort of crush. That’s the only way I can describe it, and to exacerbate it, we listened to the “Say Anything” soundtrack every day from June through August of 1990. The moment Living Colour’s “Cult of Personality” came on, we’d gasp and grab hold of our stomachs. “There it is!” we’d say, a mixture of fear and joy on our faces because the butterfly was there. We’d sit together on Celena’s bedroom floor and listen to The Replacements, Munchener Freiheit, and of course, Peter Gabriel and wonder about going to high school. What would be different? How will we change? Will a boy hold a boombox over his head outside our bedroom windows someday? (Gosh, I hope so.)

We loved the movie “Say Anything” because it was (in part) about a boy and a girl who had just fallen in love and also, had just graduated from high school. While the fourteen year old Celena and Callie would’ve passionately declared we had been in love, what resonated as we watched Lloyd and Diane in the Lake Street movie theatre, was that pulling away of what we knew, and the leaning toward what we do not know. Junior High was over, and high school loomed down the street. At times I would pull at my stomach, hoping the butterfly would do something – either be afraid and run, be sad and cry, be happy and laugh – something, but not bits of everything. It was getting hard to stand.

But stand we did, and we walked those butterflies into high school. (I’m quite certain I wore a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer shorts that first day.) Celena and I studied, we danced, we fell in love, got our hearts broken, and we laughed. My parents used to say they always knew when I was on the phone with Celena because of the way I laughed.

Eventually, the fall of 1993 rolled around and we applied to colleges. The butterfly came back, this time it felt stronger, and scarier.

The night before she left for the University of Wisconsin, we were at a party at a friend’s house drinking Boone’s and Milwaukee’s Best (we called it “The Beast”), listening to Prince, Boyz II Men, and Salt-N-Pepa. I remember I was wearing cut-offs, a red and white striped tank top, and red hoop earrings I’d bought with Celena at The Icing (we decided Claire’s was for little girls). When it was time to go, Celena and I walked up to me and said, “OK.”

I felt like I was bracing myself for an immunization. I nodded. “OK.” Then the both of us collapsed into each other, sobbing.

“I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to go. I’m so scared.” I bawled into her shoulder.

“I know, I know. I’m scared, too.”

About a week later, she called me. I had yet to leave for Calvin, where I would attend, and I was sitting on my bed surrounded by bath products, linens, notebooks, and clothes I needed to pack.

“It’s not so bad,” Celena told me. She explained about the community showers, how she had to take a bus to get her classes, that her roommates seemed nice. I listened as she talked, holding my stomach.

“I guess it’s just something we have to do,” Celena said.

***

This year marks 22 years since we had that conversation, 26 since we saw “Say Anything,” and felt the butterfly for the first time.

Recently, I was sitting in Celena’s kitchen sipping coffee while she checked her email.

“There’s a flood in Louisiana,” Celena said, and her brow was furrowed. “I wonder if I’ll need to go.” Celena’s CEO of the Chicago Red Cross.

Last night, we were dancing like a couple of 16 year olds until one in the morning. We only left because we were hungry.

“I feel like if we didn’t talk for two years,” Celena said over French fries and Italian beef, “we’d be able to pick up right where we left off.”

I nodded enthusiastically because I was shoving a handful of fries into my mouth. “Totally,” I said, once I had swallowed most of them.

“Let’s not do that, though,” Celena said. We saluted with the cups of ice water we were holding. Twenty years ago it would’ve been Diet Coke, about the only thing that’s changed since then.

I watched Celena as she surveyed each email that came in. She alternately was texting, jotting down notes, and typing emails. Laundry was going. Fruit, cheese, and donuts were laid out for breakfast and small plates were stacked next to napkins. Three or four large pictures of Celena and her son took up one wall; both of them smiling and holding hands. He has her eyes and smile.

***

I’m thinking of these memories of me and Celena, and this metaphorical butterfly as I begin a new job this month. It’ll be the first time in thirteen years I will work full-time. I said I would never again work full-time. Not because I have that luxury, but because I don’t think I can handle it. Teaching consumes me. I am terrified I will have nothing left at the end of the day: no time to write, no time for my husband and my kids. Still, my heart races when I think of an idea to try, a story to tell, a project to pursue with my students. I began diagramming different ways to set up my classroom: where to put my desk, a little reading corner, extra pens and pencils and erasers. The butterfly is as large as she’s ever been. She terrified and excited and just sitting there. I need her to try to fly.

I am wondering now, if this is what developing and eventually using a gift feels like. I’m not saying I’m the world’s greatest teacher, or Celena is the world’s greatest Red Cross CEO (although, she probably is). I’m saying learning something new about yourself and the world, trying something new, offering some of yourself is scary and wonderful, sorrowful and joyful, but I think that until we do, that butterfly won’t fly.

***

In the last scene of “Say Anything,” Lloyd and Diane are on an airplane. Diane is terrified and Lloyd is visibly scared too, but won’t admit it. He tells her to watch the seatbelt sign. As soon as it goes off, it’s safe; nothing more to worry about. So we watch the two of them holding hands and anxiously waiting for the light. When it does, the film goes black, and we are left with the memory of Diane and Lloyd’s scared faces, watching for the light, flying into the unknown.

“I guess it’s just something we have to do,” Celena said twenty-two years ago. I knew she was right then, and she’s right now. Offering ourselves no matter how afraid we are, no matter how many mistakes we make, is the only way to tame those emotions that have the ability to paralyze us. Thank God for friends who understand this. Thank God for friends who hold our hands and keep looking out for the light as we fly into the unknown.


Written by Callie Feyen, one of the best teachers we know. 

p.s. Turn any bag into a diaper bag! 

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In Working Mom Tags teaching, work, working mom, work/life balance, nerves, confidence, identity
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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile

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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
Her feet pitter patter across the tile floor as our daughter races toward the door. “Da! Da! Da!”
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I smile and stir the stew on the stovetop. The kitchen is warm, filled with the aroma of browned beef and stewed tomatoes. Glancing out the window, I’m surprised to find it’s still light outside--he hasn’t been home before dark in weeks.
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His truck shuts off, the dog kennel door clangs, and finally, his boots clomp across the porch.
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“Dad!” our son shouts as the front door squeaks open. “I want to show you something!”
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I hear him whispering to our girl in the entry. I add frozen peas to the bubbling pot on the stove.
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“Daddy, want to play play-doh with me?” our son asks.
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His hands are cracked and calloused, his sweatshirt dirty and faded. There’s mud on his pant leg and gray in his beard. His eyes are tired, but he puts our daughter on one knee, our son on the other, and scoops up a ball of play-doh without hesitation.
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He’s wearing the same black wool vest he wore on our wedding day six years ago. It’s faded to gray and it’s missing a couple of buttons. If you look closely at the seam you can see blue thread where I mended it last winter.
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That vest is a little like us.
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We’ve been torn apart by our egos and months-long unemployment, by our son’s undiagnosed cleft lip, and the feeding tube required to keep our daughter alive. We lost a button when the medical bills piled up, and another when we bought our fixer-upper.
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But we mended those places; our seams sewn back together with time and apologies and dedication.
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The way we love each other doesn't look how it used to, doesn’t feel the way it used to, either.
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Our love is no longer new and crisp. It’s worn and tested, like that faded old vest.
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And tonight, with soup on the stove and two babies on his lap, I can’t help but notice how good he looks in gray.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @carastolen
On a whim, I book a nursing photography session. It’s fall, and I buy new clothes for the session because that’s what you do in the fall. Time seems to be slipping from us as I move on autopilot, and years later, I can’t tell you how we spent our days. I only recall all the crying in the middle of the night, my hands that shook all the time, and how scared I was of what was happening, and what was to come. Then, what races through my head on repeat: I am a woman who gets left, a woman whose husband is sleeping with someone else, a woman who can’t even convince the father of her children to call them regularly. There is nothing worthy about me. "Put your fat stomach away. It’s ugly." Everything about my sons is magnificent and as much of a failure as I am, I am the only person they have to take care of them. That fact holds me hostage more than the voice in my head—"I don’t want to ever see that again. Do you understand?"—otherwise, I would never get out of bed.
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When the photos from the nursing session land in my inbox, it’s not the fading sun embracing us or the brilliant framing that catches my attention. It’s the way my baby is reaching for my face as he nurses, his eyes locked on mine, so it seems we are almost the same person still. My shirt is pushed down around my breast; you can hardly tell we are nursing: we could be just another baby and mama pair captivated by one another. My breath catches as I realize, he loves me. I don’t know what my baby sees in me, and over the next few days I become obsessed with flipping through the photos and trying to understand: What have I missed about myself, the person who doesn’t deserve to be loved?
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// From "Putting Fat Stomachs in Their Place" by guest writer @lacianne.schmidt, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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