 With the warmth and beauty of summer upon us, I find myself reflecting on what has surely been a pivotal point in my life. This personally all-important, fork-in-the-road started on a summer afternoon a few years ago. Looking back, I recall it was a day like any other except for one thing: I just so happened to notice a solitary white butterfly playfully frolicking among the vegetation near my home. And while insects of this type are fairly common where I live, what I remember most is pausing because of how uncommonly beautiful this creature was. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you this singular butterfly had an ethereal quality about it—the way its wings shimmered as it fluttered about. Still, being the perpetually-distracted type, I didn’t give it much thought, at least not until it zigzagged in and out around my head. For the fourth time. Crazy as it may sound, I sensed the insect was trying to tell me something, but not in the delicate whisper you’d expect from someone with paper-thin wings. This was more of a bull horn approach in the form of a biologically-based dive-bomb. Viscerally, I felt the message was intended as a kind of wake-up call, but in relation to what exactly I wasn’t sure. Perhaps an even better question would have been why now? The answer began to unfold later that same evening. To her credit, my step-mom tried to reach me prior to my logging onto Facebook, but as the devastating news of my dad’s death trickled in, I found myself thinking back to that butterfly--my butterfly. Jarring as the news was, in that very moment of reading about my father’s passing, I somehow knew the butterfly was his way of reaching out to me with an important message. The only question was what was he trying to communicate? What came next is what does for most folks, I suppose—a whirlwind of travel plans, ceremonies, and heart-felt condolences. Not surprisingly, touching my father’s cold, lifeless hand was yet one more reminder of just how few of us live the lives of our dreams, not to mention how distracted many of us become as the years race by. Such had become an all too familiar theme in my own life. To my frustration, hard as I tried to extricate myself from the frenzied pace and problems typical of our time, I just couldn’t quite escape the feeling of being a rat trapped inside an emotionally-numbing maze. Over the weeks and months that followed, I was delighted to find my step mother and I had grown much closer, and to this day I consider ours to be a meaningful relationship—a precious gift left to both of us by my father. In one of our numerous email exchanges she suggested I contact a high school buddy of my father’s. “He’s a writer—you should have a lot in common,” she informed me. Of course I was hesitant, mainly because I wasn’t sure I was done licking my wounds. Having a father who had a love affair with vodka tends to have that effect. It wasn’t long after our conversation that the universe once again tapped me on the shoulder. This time I was working on my first practice novel when I saw the half-dreaded email message come in. Holding my breath, I read how Ted had been my father’s friend back in high school and how my step-mom had invited him to communicate with me. My heart hammered inside my chest. After all, hitting the reply button might result in opening a Pandora’s Box. But to not do so would be rude. Still, I knew that by sending a message back, I would likely find myself confronting my father’s teen years—all while raising a teen of my own! For heaven’s sake, I was still grieving. Did I really want to know what I didn’t already know? Suddenly I could hear the clinking of ice cubes and the glug-glug-glug of vodka playing like an old, rerun in the back of my mind. I had always assumed my father would die before his time in one of his violent, car collisions. To my happy surprise he had survived those horrific years and gone on to live a clean and sober life. Even so, it's funny how those old ghosts haunt us decades later. Nervously, I replied to Ted. I politely thanked him for reaching out to me, all the while trying to figure out where this was going. Back and forth we went. What I quickly discovered was how incredibly warm, intelligent and comical this man was! Known to most of the rest of the world simply as author T. Emerson May, Ted told me stories of when he and my dad were in their late teens…about cars and girls and cigarettes and about how well-dressed and cordial my father was. Before I knew it, I began to remember snippets of the man he was describing. And that’s when it hit me. We all have those dark parts within us. Each and every one of us is like a two-sided coin—one part light and goodness and the other dark and in need of work. This life lesson was one I would later incorporate in my writing. Already, Ted had influenced me without even knowing it. As our friendship grew, Ted and I talked more and more about the art of writing. To his credit, he answered a number of basic questions. He also listened to a lot of whining from me. “Just stick with it,” he said, as he recalled his own early struggles. We seemed to agree on the enormous challenge of learning how to write dialogue that’s not only interesting, but also moves a story forward. For me it was wonderful to converse with someone who had become a prolific writer, as it gave me hope that one day I too might reach this lofty goal. Through Ted’s gentle brand of encouragement - along with the passage of time - I’m happy to say that I feel like a “real writer” now. I’m also at peace with the memory of my father. As I write this it occurs to me my dad knew what a treasure Ted was to him. Maybe he knew what a dear friend he became to me as well. Looking back, I don’t believe any portion of what happened was coincidence. In fact, from where I’m standing today, I’m certain meeting Ted was the product of divine intervention. It may sound funny, but it seems as if the magic potion for getting me on track as a writer consisted of a couple of earth angels, a butterfly, and maybe a little smattering of cosmic dust thrown in for good measure. It was only through this precise combination of people and events that I was able to get back to where I always knew I belonged—firmly implanted in the future. Without Ted’s influence, my ALTERNATE REALITIES stories and DARK STAR sci-fi series might never have gotten off the ground. Of course all of this began with that one ethereal butterfly--my butterfly—sent by my father as an urgent wake-up call to stop being distracted and start living the life of my dreams. Message received, Dad. Thank you again, Ted. I love and miss you both. May you rest in peace. ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  D. M Atwood is an American writer of suspenseful science fiction, paranormal and horror. She draws upon her B.A. in psychology to develop flawed and complex characters while her background as a nanotechnology start-up owner serves as the foundation for her sci-fi’s exciting, futuristic technologies. In addition, as a trained massage therapist and ET/UFO experiencer, she is comfortable exploring some of the more esoteric aspects of the human condition. D. M. Atwood currently resides in Arizona. Categories All
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