Martin sat down next to me at my invitation. I was sitting in the large warehouse-size coffee shop bakery, working on various projects…it was my second consecutive day here. He spoke no English, which gave me the perfect opportunity to practice my Spanish with him. He seemed to have taken a shine to me, surprising me with a gift of cake, as he was one of the bakers, two days in a row.
I was introduced to him a few months earlier by a woman I was meeting there with to discuss giving her daughter piano lessons. Each time I went to work there, I’d wave hello to him, as he seemed to remember me.
The day before he’d sat down to talk, I’d just learned that a friend of mine was not long for this world. Though I was not very close with her, I was close enough to be touched by her in many ways - she was generous with her love and attention. So, as I read the message and my throat choked back a sob, Martin appeared next to me with a slice of coffee cake. It was as though he was angel-sent.
When I saw him the next day, I told him in my broken spanish what that had meant, that I was a little sad and that his gesture was appreciated. So a little while later, he brought me a chocolate and raspberry confection that I nibbled on for the next few hours. At the end of his shift, he came by and I invited him to sit and talk.
I’d been wishing for someone to practice my spanish with - there’s people offering classes or one-on-one tutoring, but my reading is fairly good, I can order just about anything in a restaurant with ease, I just need to practice both listening to and speaking in regular conversation. So here was my golden opportunity, a wish made true.
Martin asked me the preliminaries - he’d forgotten my name, so he asked that first, followed by where I was from, where I lived, if I was married and whether I had children, and what I did for work. Again I mentioned that I had been sad and the reason, to which he then talked a length about the opportunity to live a life to it’s fullest and with gratitude. Or at, least, from what I could gather. He was probably speaking more slowly for my benefit, but my brain insisted on translating what he said to understand it, so keeping up was challenging, and I believe I only understood about 60% of what he said. At one point, he said something about “mariposas en la bolsa” and pointed at my purse. I looked confused, and still don’t know what he meant. Translated directly, it means “butterflies in the bag.”
Later, I mentioned this to my brother, who has lived in Brazil for 20+ years, and speaks several languages fluently. I was remarking on the beauty of romance languages, and also that I wondered if Martin was checking to see how much I really understood and perhaps his comment about the butterflies in my bag was him just pulling my leg. My brother suggested that it might be a mexican turn of phrase, a metaphor for something else, since “mariposa” as he understands it, is a reference to a woman, specifically one who works. And I was certainly working on some projects. Or trying to, in any case. I made a mental note to ask one of my English-speaking mexican friends (or spanish speaking American friends) if the phrase has a specific significance.
Until then, I am left to making my own interpretation of it. He had talked a length about all the beauty we see in the world, and that the collecting of things wasn’t what made life rich, but seeing the simplicity and joy all around and finding gratitude for each moment. This resonated with other experiences I have had when working through loss and grief. Perhaps he meant that I needn’t dwell in my grief, but rather recognize that we are all butterflies in a bag, that once opened, my friend flew free, as we all will some day.
Butterflies are archetypal representations of transformation, and what is death if not the greatest transformation we experience in our life? As the first anniversary of my mother’s death draws near, I find that my grief at my friend’s passing contains within it some as yet unfelt and unexpressed grief over that loss, too. As the year has passed, I have found myself more and more often recalling not the painful memories, but more positive ones. Aphorisms my mother would fondly repeat, lessons she taught, perspectives she shared, all these annoyances that felt like lemon juice on a papercut, now appreciated and gladly smiled upon.
Like her, I’ve inherited the ability to reframe things with an eye out for the silver lining. It wasn’t that she was invalidating or ignoring my suffering or pain, but perhaps she saw it and wished to alleviate it, and it was our misunderstanding of each other that created more, rather than less. So, now, as I let go of the old victim stories, the loss of my friend and my mother compounded now by the loss of what I believed true all these years. I must open the bag of my heart, and release these butterflies, one tear at a time. There’s much beauty in the world, and with it much gratitude to experience and express.