Butterflies

I’m now 18 weeks and 5 days—so a little over the halfway mark. The nausea and sickness finally seem to have subsided, and I’m beginning to feel more like myself again. It felt like it went on forever.

Right now, I’m in the East Tennessee mountains for a little getaway—mostly to house- and dog-sit for dear family friends while they’re in Europe. I’ve been coming up here all my life, and there’s just something about it. Maybe it’s the constant beauty that surrounds me, or the friendly people, or the small mom-and-pop shops—but it just feels like home. I feel most like my childhood self when I’m here: peaceful, calm, unbothered by the world. It’s my own little cave in the side of the mountain where I can unplug from the hustle, the distractions, the noise, the people, and the hamster wheel of modern suburban life. It’s simple—like things used to be.

I’m an extreme person. I can’t help it; I’m an artist. I either like to be in the city (which I was, for 15 years—so I’m over it) or out in the sticks. The suburbs are a strange concept to me. It’s convenient, but not in the rich, diverse sense of variety that a city offers. It’s Starbucks, Chick-fil-A (no hate, Chick-fil-A—I love you), McDonald’s, KFC, Panera Bread, Publix, Harris Teeter, and about 15 mediocre sports bars. And you’re constantly in your car. The traffic, the lack of walkability, the track-home neighborhoods. Every dollar I earn is instantly vaporized just to cover basic overhead. And for what? It seems like all the beauty life has to offer gets knocked down to make room for another dystopian shopping center.

I know, I know—I’m complaining. I shouldn’t. But I did say I would be honest here.

When I think about Emilia and the childhood I want her to have, it’s not in the town where I grew up. To be honest, it’s not even remotely the same town anymore. Denver, North Carolina used to be so small. You couldn’t go anywhere without seeing someone you knew. Kids who grew up there stayed until they went to college, and everybody was in the same circles until then. I left in middle school to move to Los Angeles to work in TV and film, but every summer and holiday I came home, the same friends were there waiting.

It wasn’t easy for me—people had changed so much in the time I was away—but I’m not the best example of a conventional upbringing. My point is: I loved my small town. It’s a suburb now. I don’t know anyone or see anyone anymore. Most everyone is from a big city now. But hey—lots of fast-food chains to use whatever’s left of your income on.

There’s something monastic about rural life. For example, as I write this, I’m sitting on a screened porch, breathing in fresh mountain air, listening to the stream on the property, and watching a flutter of butterflies on the butterfly bush right in front of me (yes, the landscaping here is superb). I don’t need to go anywhere, get dressed a certain way, buy anything, look at the news, use my phone, or even watch TV to feel content. I can just sit here, reflect, and look at what God made.

Butterflies have been a big theme during this trip. The other day, while walking around the property, one of them landed on my leg. It reminded me of when I feel Emilia move inside my belly. I’ve only just started to feel her more regularly. She really likes music and starts to move when her father and I play—or during Divine Liturgy. Sometimes, when I don’t feel her for a while, I get nervous. I think it’s normal to wonder if you’re doing everything right. I certainly have moments of anxiety, but I remember to trust in God’s will—and eventually, I feel the butterflies again.

I’m already romanticizing what it will be like to raise a little girl. I can’t wait to see her, to watch her grow, and to get to know her soul and personality. We’ll do crafts, read books, cook meals, play outside, explore the mountains, watch old movies, go to church, pray, and make memories with family and friends.

I’m excited for Emilia to see the butterflies.