Non-giftwrapping post: Beauty and fragility

courtesy DominicsPics

I can't believe it's already been a month since the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. This past Sunday, I read this article about a month-new mayor in the coastal town of Rikuzentakata, and the terrible choices he had to make on the day of the disaster. It left me in tears. I was struck by the incredible strength and dignity of the survivors in the face of all of this suffering and uncertainty.

As I sat there in my quiet, sunny kitchen, with a warm cup of coffee and my snoozing cat, it reminded me of how grateful I was to be safe and comfortable, and how easily normal life can be turned upside down in a few moments. The next day at work, I read about Project Paper Crane, which is creating a public art installation of origami cranes to raise awareness and money to help the relief effort in Japan. I've made my modest donation, and will attend one of the crane-folding sessions next week. I hope you'll support this cause, too.

Reading about Project Paper Crane brought to mind a bittersweet memory from a few years ago, when I was dealing with health issues and some other overwhelming life stresses. One frigid December morning, I cut through one of the academic buildings on campus on my way to the office. I climbed the stairwell to the second floor exit, and on the way, I saw something unexpected and beautiful:

Eight tiny cranes, on the window frame in the stairwell. They were lined up perfectly, and each could fit on a quarter. I don't know quite why, but for some reason I felt like someone left them there to cheer me up. So I took pictures. And smiled for the rest of the day when I thought of them.

That night, I went home and made eight tiny silver butterflies, and the next morning, carefully placed them in the neighboring window pane. It was especially tricky, since much of the joy was the secret-ness of them. I paced back and forth on the landing, waiting for students to leave, and then leaned over the railing to place the butterflies on the shelf. In retrospect, I probably looked totally crazy. (My only regret: I lost the photos I took of my butterflies!)

Mission accomplished, I practically skipped to the office, feeling happy about my new origami mystery friend. On my way home, I stopped by again, to admire our little display of cranes and butterflies.

I was not prepared for what I found the next morning:

88 cranes. Perfectly uniform, perfectly spaced, lining 10 window panes.

Exhilarated, I snapped photos, and bought more origami paper on the way home. I made 88 butterflies over the weekend, and started planting them about 10 at a time, because that's all I had time for. I figured my origami friend must have been a student working late hours of the night, when nobody was around.

On the third day of "butterfly delivery," I climbed the stairs and stopped in my tracks. Someone had destroyed the display, knocking the cranes everywhere, and crushing some on the ground. I remember just staring at the mess, trying to deal with how angry and sad I felt. Why and how could someone destroy something so exquisitely beautiful that clearly took so long to build? I was surprised by the sense of loss I felt over these scattered little bits of paper.

So I did the only thing I could do. I bent down and picked up as many as I could, fixed the broken ones, and carefully put them back. Only about a quarter of them made it, but I still felt good about it. I added a handful of the new ones in my purse.

The same thing happened the next day. This time I just walked past it and went straight to my office. I closed the door and cried. It sounds totally silly, but in a way it makes sense. I was going through a dark time in my life, and this little exchange was a spontaneous bright spot. I guess I should have known that it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, I came to feel happy about it, despite the disappointing end. I chose to accept the happiness it brought me, however fleeting.

I still checked the stairwell periodically, hoping my friend would re-appear. But I didn't see a sign of them for months. Then one day in April, a bunny and some chicks showed up on the shelf. And I just burst into laughter. Even now when I think about it, it makes me smile because it reminds me that no matter how terrible things get, there's always hope, and there's always tomorrow.