The Butterfly Effect…or Just Great F*cking Writers

Edward Lorenz and the Discovery of the Butterfly Effect

“It used to be thought that the events that changed the world were things like big bombs, maniac politicians, huge earthquakes, or vast population movements, but it has now been realized that this is a very old-fashioned view held by people totally out of touch with modern thought. The things that change the world, according to Chaos theory, are the tiny things. A butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe.”
                                                    — from Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

If you’ve been following ‘the challenge’ initiated last week, you hopefully experienced the magic that happens when people break out of their comfort zones and inspire others to do the same.

If you missed out on some of the action, Tanya, our Incurable Dreamer, summed it up perfectly in “the losing of my poetry virginity“

“Last week, she [that’s me] wrote a poem [inspired by George Ella Lyon’ original ‘Where I’m From’], and what has transpired since then has been nothing short of extraordinary.

The poem she wrote was inspired by a prompt – Where I’m From.

Her idea was to post it on her blog and challenge someone to write a poem about where they are from, and then hopefully they too would pass it forward. Well, that is what she did, and that is exactly what happened. She challenged Tom who challenged Wulf who challenged Susan who challenged Bojana.

Inspired by Brooke’s words, Brad and  LLY1205 didn’t even wait to be challenged, they both just got right to it and wrote and posted their poems.”

                                                                                                                          * image from http://thebutterflyeffect.org/

This wasn’t a competition, by any means. But we were all nervous to try something that isn’t exactly our strong suit. Even our celebrated poets expressed some anxiety about presenting their piece. I suppose it’s because we are all following the same model- one that requires us to reveal some of the most intimate parts of our stories- and create something on the heels of the previous person who blew us away…

But no pressure…really.

So, back to the whole butterfly thing. Yes, I will acknowledge that I set this in motion…flapping my wings if you will. But, as Edward Lorenz, creator of the chaos theory postulates: (Cool article discussing the butterfly effect here)

“Subject to the conditions of uniqueness, continuity, and boundedness … a central trajectory, which in a certain sense is free of transient properties, is unstable if it is nonperiodic. A noncentral trajectory … is not uniformly stable if it is nonperiodic, and if it is stable at all, its very stability is one of its transient properties, which tends to die out as time progresses. In view of the impossibility of measuring initial conditions precisely, and thereby distinguishing between a central trajectory and a nearby noncentral trajectory, all nonperiodic trajectories are effectively unstable from the point of view of practical prediction.”

Simply stated, the noncentral trajectory of my challenge was effectively unstable and wouldn’t have unfolded the way it did if you all had let it die out…

Okay, enough of that. In short, it was not I who accepted the challenge and wrote something brilliant enough to inspire the next person, who wrote something brilliant enough to inspire the next person…

Maybe I did initiate a breeze. But you all gave it the momentum necessary to make the next person’s words take flight, compelling them to dig deeper and soar to heights that took our writers and readers by storm and left us all spinning. 

So Tanya, thank you for finishing off this whirlwind week of words with such grace, depth and courage. And thanks to the rest of you brave souls who gave us an enchanting glimpse into…where you are from.

See where Mirian, from Out an’ About takes us next…

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Challenge, Accepted. Brilliance, Ignited

A much-deserved follow-up to The Lion’s Lair & A Challenge.

Tom being Tom certainly rose to the challenge, eliciting the following reaction. I decided to include it here because it also applies to the previous poems I got to read, written by two brave souls who were inspired by the prompt. (Their masterpieces are included below Tom’s).

These poems do everything I think poetry should- tapping into the spaces where emotions lay dormant, conjuring them up, gently at first, until the next line, then the next, until I feel all of it acutely, getting a sense of what galvanized the words, yet wanting to know more about the spaces in between…

Tom:
How is the youngest different? How did you transition from a youth that seemed complacent to living your life fully, authentically, staying curious, aware, concerned? How is it that you can delve into the ‘why’s’ of the wrongs and actively contemplate how we can right them? How did you find enduring love…what do you do to keep it so?

Brad:
Who did you lose? Where does the pain come from? What keeps you restless, or have your roots finally taken hold?

Elizabeth:
Where do I even begin?  Where do the maple roof and stonework reside? Is it your eyes that stay guileless? Did you find the gold you were missing to fill in the empty space?

No one needs to answer these questions, of course. The answers are there…lingering in the spaces between.

Next up, our celebrated poet, Brandenwulf, author of blog: Brandewijn Words, More magic to come, of that I have no doubt.

(Addendum: Brandenwulf wasted no time, and of course, created a work of art that sent us all reeling…get ready:  I am 

—

Crafted by our brave soul, Tom being Tom:

Where I’m From

I am from Krypton
And from Asgard.
From the Bugle and the Planet.
From a Manhattan in my head,
Covered in Webs.

I am from The Seven,
From Cecil and from Peggy.
The spoiled one.
The youngest.
Like all the others,
Only different.

I am from wasted youth.
From passing grades,
And boredom in math,
And history and gym.
From doodling, not studying.
From building worlds,
And playing games,
And ignoring rules,
That make us “great.”

I am from barley and from hops.
From summer heat,
And charcoal and gas.
From burgers and steaks,
And spicy wieners on the grill.

I am from umbrellas,
In the rain,
To turn the meat on time.

I am from golden dogs,
And Mrs C.
And love beyond compare.

I am from the search inside.

I am from earth.
I am from you,
And you are from me,
And we are from here,
This place called home.

That we destroy.

I am from tomorrow.
Where there are no wars,
Or hunger,
Or hate.
Where the needs of the many,
Outweigh the greed of the few.
Where children do not die
Where they learn,
And borders are open,
And treatment is free,
And no one needs nations,
And no one needs gods,
To tell us we’re alright.

Because we’re alright.

I am from Hope.

And it is with Hope I shall remain.

—

Written by Brad, Writing to Freedom

Where I’m From

birthed in Madison Wi

raised in Mclean VA

independence sought in Portland OR and Boulder CO

landing in Fayetteville AR

my tender roots started to grow

in the shade of a giant willow tree

nature's love nested in my heart

dormant until pain demanded action

I sprung forth like a shot

traveling the country near and far

finally a winter's rest in Portland OR

with self-exploration taking hold

then off to new adventures in Boulder CO

where the men did call and brothers we became

but death came knocking and changed the game

wanderlust took hold and fear went traveling

a weary traveler landed in Arkansas

with roots tenuous at best

too little water and soil

constantly pulled by restless feet

finally defeat layed down the law

at 50 the game became survival

slowly self-love took root

nurtured in compassion and care

Where I’m From – 2

I'm from willows and creeks,

backyard retreats

riding bikes, badminton and croquet

childhood glee amid adult defeats

lost friends, isolation, and pain

solace in books, school, and work

with excellence the measure

I'm from generations of pain

locked in booze and depression

tendrils of love in booze and sex

travel, parks, hiking, and a VW Camper

I'm from men's groups, soul searching quests

advanced in hiking, biking

photography, dancing, and play

then death came calling

roots pulled up again

I'm from fear and losses

responsiblity and survival

with no clear path forward

a hint of light grew in the dark

compassion and care leading the way

Written by Elizabeth, author of Serial Outlet,

Where I am From

When you buried my shovel

I was left idle, unmasked and thinking

There is no glitter in my well

No gold ‘mong damp and mossy dark’

–

Most ropes would recoil

But these linen plaits graze water

Unfrayed and still and tranquil

As the maple roof and stonework above

–

Anglo, Roman-Catholic stays

Build ribcages smoother than granite

And flakes of mica without replace

Ingots for those who would clamber within

–

Some eyes stay bright and guileless through

Trials largely of one’s own making

Rope winding, coiling back to

Where I am from

——

For more brilliant reading, here is an additional poet who also reignited my love of poetry…reading it, anyway. ;o)

Susan, author of blog: Flowering Ink .

The Lion’s Lair & A Challenge

Okay, a break from soulmates. I received an unexpected, much-needed gift this week and got to spend a couple of hours with my writing teacher, Miss Lisa Jones.

I discovered Lisa when I was in a coffee shop doing research for my upcoming trip to the Congo. I was thinking I should learn how to write so I could share my experience with friends and family, looked up from my computer and there was her flyer posted on the community board. I was sitting next to her within a couple of weeks.

Four years later, now a self-declared writer, I got to revisit the process of trying to follow her prompts and find the courage to read what I came up with (which is never what I want it to be) out loud to a room full of strangers. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and always sends me soaring way outside my comfort zone.

Poetry. I kinda hate it. I don’t know how to do it, and I always feel like I’m imitating Dr. Suess.

So, of course, our first prompt was a poem. I’ll share it with you and what I came up with (which I think sounds like a darker, more jaded version of Dr. Suess).

Okay, so a challenge: I’m gonna pass this off to one of you, and if you are up for it, I would love to see your version, your story.

When you post, or if you prefer to pass, send to on to someone you think might want to experiment with it.

The first victim, if he so chooses, is Tom being Tom. :o)

My version of Lyon’s original:

Where I’m From: The Lion’s Lair

I am from pigtails, teddy bears, things tied in bows
From cow pastures, barbed wire, dry, dusty roads
From Vodka bottles buried
beneath dirty clothes

I’m from TV dinners, pudding pops, sweetened ice tea
From silence, shame, and muffled screams
From two best friends
only I could see

I am from weeping willows, bare feet, Fourth of July
From Bible study, train tracks, the cicadas’ cry
From climbing trees, scraped up knees
chasing fireflies

I’m from dreaming of anyplace but here
From invented fairytales and judgmental stares
From her inevitable return
from the lion’s lair

I am from faded photographs of faces unknown
From a wild heart with a gypsy’s soul
From an untethered spirit
that can never let go

Where I’m From

~ George Ella Lyon
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments–
snapped before I budded–
leaf-fall from the family tree

 

Finding your Soulmate 101 (or whatever the prereq to that would be)

“Do you believe soulmates exist?”

My friend asked me this as he was telling me about his impending breakup.

“And if they do, how do we know we’ve found our actual soul mate vs. just a deep connection or fleeting love? Is it really worth the energy and potential pain if we’re not sure?”

I answered the first question without hesitation. “Yes, absolutely.” But the second one gave me pause. How do you know, especially in the beginning, when it all feels magical?

But yes, there is definitely a distinction. Putting it into words, however, is the equivalent of trying to explain how it feels to be loved or to have faith.

Love feels like your soul has been kissed. Faith feels like love in its purest form.

But that’s hard to conjure up on a whim, especially while trying to avoid saying all the things that made me cringe when I was in the thick of a heartbreak.

My enlightened response? 

“I don’t know…you just know.”

If that doesn’t make you cringe…ambiguities and sweeping generalizations are the last thing you want to hear when your heart is being ripped out. You want fucking answers.

So I decided it best to keep my mouth shut, nod my head empathetically and refrain from rattling off reasons why it’s for the best. All I really wanted to do, however, was encourage him to memorize how he feels right now so he’ll remember the next time this happens: the pain really doesn’t last forever…I think.

Thankfully, I opted to keep my mouth shut.

I saw his relationship unfold from the beginning. There were obvious warning signs, but he couldn’t see them, of course. We rarely can.

We’re too immersed in the present moment, relishing in the excitement of discovery. We finally found someone who fits, who can finish our sentences, celebrate our quirks, shine light on the beautiful parts that get lost when no one’s there to name them. We found someone to play with, to laugh with, to make our hearts fuller, lighter. We found our soul mate…

Or did we? How do we know for sure, if what we found is real, if it’s worth the gamble when the stakes are so high.

We don’t, I guess…until we do.

Full Disclosure:

Okay, I don’t really know that “you just know.”

It makes sense that you would. I’ve heard that’s how it works. But I honestly can’t speak from experience. I’ve never met mine, not that kind, I don’t think. I thought I did. But, I would know, right?

The whole thing got me thinking. Not just about ‘finding my soulmate’, all of it- the different shades, degrees and patterns of connection, love and relationships.

But seriously, I’m still here? 101? I should have a Ph.D. in this shit by now. Or at least be making substantial progress. So why do I still feel like I’m learning how to spell?

Y-O-U  A-R-E  D-O-I-N-G  T-H-I-S  A-L-L  W-R-O-N-G

No, this isn’t where I want to be- sifting through relationships that are frustrating and unfulfilling. And truly, as much as it might appear to consume me, I’m not on some mad quest to find the one. I’m fine with a break from it all, knowing that I’m still a bit fragile and borderline calloused…not a good place to start from, I’ve discovered.

Yet they continue to surface, and I continue to play them out: these impossible scenarios that turn into an insidious dance- one that gets replayed over and over, making sure I stay a little fragile and increasingly calloused.

So time for a bit more self-reflection (which I assure you, I’m super excited about).

However, I have additional incentive this time; my friend needs some answers.

So I’m doing a little research…

Picture courtesy- KosovaLive360

Next week: No assignments. Attendance encouraged, open-mind required.
Extra credit for any shared soulmate encounters.