In defense of the butterfly effect: Life cycles of a digital dream

My dad sometimes says to me something along the lines of, "Every act, no matter how large or small, will enact some kind of change in the universe. Whether or not that act is significant is a possibility whose full potential isn’t extinguished once the moment is over."

He says it's from Carl Sagan, but I think he just made it up.

The other day, I saw a butterfly on the road outside the Arts Haus and stopped to have a look. I’m not that into butterflies and probably wouldn’t have noticed it unless I had seen my aunt’s Facebook highlight reel of a monarch butterfly’s chrysalis: eerily close shots of its green cocoon; the same cocoon, blurry, a few days later — this time with little white cracks peeking through the top and finally, with all the drama of childbirth, the adult butterfly itself. When the last photos came, I was staring at my phone, a little self-aware, full of emotion but also vaguely disappointed that the end had come so soon. I had been along for the journey, felt the curiosity, the anticipation and perhaps the fear that it wouldn’t happen as planned. After all, those pictures of the pupa, posted every day, seemed to last too long; maybe the thing had given up this whole charade and chosen to stay asleep in its cozy cocoon forever.

When, finally, I saw the adult butterfly stretching its wings to dry in the sun for the first time, I was surprised at how much the image affected me. Wonder swept through me. I was happily shocked by this utterly transformed being. But then, some self-awareness. Though I had never considered the concept of a butterfly’s right to privacy, I felt like I had stopped in on some private and perhaps sacred happening that, hundreds of miles away, I had no business seeing in such detail. With all my digitally influenced emotions, was I now some kind of experiential authority on butterfly chrysalis? Oh yeah, I saw it happen. On Facebook, but still.

Despite the tenuous claim that I had really witnessed the change, I, a butterfly novice, nonetheless found myself crouched on Sawyer Avenue just a few days ago, peering at another pair of sun-drenched brown wings. There was this moment of joy like, "Hey, I know what you’ve been through to get here, man!" I bent my face close to the asphalt and inspected its subtle spots, little blue tattoos. It dawned on me (definitely a novice here) that it was still, not resting here to dry its wings but at final rest. And yet, it held all the beauty and dignity of a newborn monarch, quietly and dutifully marching through all the stages of growth. What a strange, strange world. I stood up, continued walking to my destination, sensing that the story, perhaps transformed, was not quite finished yet.