A friend of mine sent this to me
-----------------------------------------

Introduction

How fables are written



As you cannot separate the influence of my city and country, my culture and religion, my family and friends from my thinking and storytelling, you cannot separate my first fable— The Butterfly—from Korea. Let me explain.


A few years back, when I was twenty-three, I sat in an accounting class at Concordia University (Montreal, Canada) feeling inauthentic and cowardly. It was the last class I needed for a graduate certificate in software engineering, and as far as the formula goes, I should have been happy, thrilled, delighted—ready to conquer the world!


Yet I was depressed.

Sullen.

Wishing the class would last forever.


Not because I enjoyed balance sheets and ledgers, but because I could envision myself living a life counter to the dictates of my soul, and I was in no particular rush to begin that life. Deep down, I wished I had the courage to listen to my heart. To devote my time and energy to storytelling.


But storytelling was not a legitimate pursuit in my family. To do such a thing was to incur the wrath of the tribe. And that tribe, unable to separate status and salary from success and excellence, was unforgiving. The only way to achieve success in this world was to become a lawyer, engineer, or doctor—a professional. Art, it seems, was for outcasts.

So there I sat, listening to the teacher drone on and on about debits and credits, a fish in a nest learning how to sing, drying up inside, wondering with every wheeze if I really belonged in that nest. And it was in this soul-sapping class that I spotted a fuzzy black and brown caterpillar crawling across the whiteboard.

I tuned out.

Forgot the teacher.

Became intrigued.

I wanted to know more. So much more. Its life. Its journey. Its obstacles. And I had questions. So many questions: Were all caterpillars the same? Was the journey from caterpillar to butterfly easy? Why weren't caterpillars just born butterflies? Why did they need to go through such a journey? Why go through the pain and trouble of metamorphosis?

And so, when I should have been analyzing balance sheets at the library, I was researching butterflies.

What I discovered amazed me. All my life I assumed caterpillars merely ate leaves, destroyed Mom's garden, and fluttered away on glorious wings. How wrong I was. Research showed me that the caterpillar's journey was a difficult and complicated one filled with enemies and obstacles. I even discovered that some \"specialist\"caterpillars like the Karner Blue Butterfly needed to find an exclusive food plant to help them metamorphose into a butterfly.

The whole idea of a food plant fascinated me. My mind shifted into creative-drive and a million and one What If's came to the forefront of my mind:

What if what we do in our lives is as important (or more) than how much we make? What if what we did in our lives was like our food plant? What if we denied our souls of our food plant for mere comfort and security? What if we forgot the journey of life and only lived for retirement? What if caterpillars forgot how to be butterflies? What if caterpillars isolated themselves in a palace, forgot how to be real, and only lived for retirement?

The idea took on a life of its own.

Soon I had conceived of this Silk Palace where caterpillars completely forgot about being real and only lived for glitter (caterpillar currency) so that they could eventually buy a butterfly suit at the end of their lives.

Inspired, I wrote furiously in class.

I remember writing the entire class, periodically looking up at my teacher to feign interest. I remember my teacher staring back at me amazed at my focus and passion. When once the classes were too long, I now felt they were too short. And, on more than one occasion, the teacher left me in an empty class as I wrote away and other students entered and a new class began.

On the last day of class, my teacher asked me to stay behind.

When everyone left, he signaled me over to his desk and pointed to his mark book. His finger moved to my name, then my mark. He looked up at me in disappointment.

I had failed by a few percentage points.

I sighed.

He sighed.

His hand moved to his head. He rubbed his forehead, deeply confused. \"I don't understand,\" he said. \"You work so hard. You take so many notes. You take more notes than anyone I ever taught. I don't understand. I just don't understand…\"

I shrugged. \"Me neither…\"

After a thoughtful silence, he turned to me and said, \"I'm going to pass you. I know you'll eventually get it. Keep working the way you do and, I know, I just know, you'll get it.\"

\"I will! I swear.\" We had not defined \"it\", and if by \"it\" he meant storytelling, he was right. I'd keep working hard; I'd write every day; and eventually, I'd get it.

\"Good,\" he said and passed me.

I smiled.

I had my degree and the first draft of The Butterfly.

Now all I needed was a job.

I went to several interviews but every time I had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow I knew I'd never complete my fable working a nine-to-five. I knew I needed work without the corporate politics. Work that inspired me, that filled me with energy, not drained me; and so, I began to consider other options.

I had heard of artists traveling to Korea to pursue their art. Many artists described Seoul as the Paris of the nineteen twenties and thirties, a time when a generation of writers and painters moved to the French city because the lifestyle afforded them the time and inspiration to create. Hemmingway, Joyce, Stein, Picasso, Pound all belonged to this generation ( Lost Generation) and the thought of meeting up and being around all these character types intrigued me.

After much research I found a job as a kindergarten teacher at Kids College in Kang-Nam. So I packed my bags and began on a journey that would change my life forever .

My journey, and the ideas I would later weave into The Butterfly, began on the plane. I sat next to an American who had been living in Seoul for three or so years. When he discovered I was moving to Korea, he assaulted me with a barrage of negativity, as if the bad and the ugly were all his narrow eyes could see.

I listened to him silently and detected symptoms of Christopher Columbus Syndrome: unable to see or appreciate the wealth of other cultures, unable to embrace a new lifestyle, wanting desperately to make every place on earth like the home he left behind.

I couldn't believe his criticisms. They were all about his adopted country not being like his country. For a moment I thought he was trying to purposely scare me like those individuals who are only happy when they make other people miserable—living, thriving, growing on negativity.


When I could bear no more, I told him I was very sorry that he had not found anything positive in Korea and that it was a shame he was so miserable living in Seoul. I reflected a moment, then asked the obvious question:

\"Why are you returning?\"

\"The money is good.\"

\"Ah, I see.\"

He passed his hand through his dirty blonde hair and his blue eyes smiled.

\"Maybe,\" I offered, \"you didn't enjoy Korea because you're more like Christopher Columbus and less like Marco Polo.\"

He lost his smile. \"I don't understand.\"

\"Yeah,\" I continued. \"The way I see it there are two types of travelers. Those who see the world like Marco Polo and those who see the world like Christopher Columbus.\"

\"Why you telling me that?\"

I expanded, \"Columbus destroyed almost every culture he interacted with. He forced his language, his ways, and his belief system on entire populations. Polo, on the other hand, assimilated with others. He embraced differences. He appreciated the unfamiliar. He learned the language, he ate the food, he enjoyed the customs. He didn't try to change what he found, rather he learned and grew in his new environment. In fact, his eyes were so open to new things that he found a great many things to take back home—and I'm not talking about slaves.\"

He looked distraught. Terrified, even. Cognitive dissonance a-la-mass. Everything he had ever learned about Columbus in schools, everything he had memorized to pass exams conflicted with what I had just said.

\"Mind you,\" I said as an afterthought, \"That's merely my point-of-view. A thought for you to mull over or dismiss. Think about it. Explore it. Or laugh at it. I'm not here to change your mind or challenge you. I just wanted to offer an alternate viewpoint.\" I yawned. \"Anyhow, I appreciate your Intro to Korea, but all this negativity has really made me tired.\"

I closed my eyes and thought I could draw much inspiration from this man. And perhaps he was put on my path to help me complete my fable. He was a lot like the caterpillars: convinced of his superiority; able to forfeit happiness for money; ignorant of the forest and all the creatures that lived in it.

Throughout my three year sojourn in Korea I would meet dozens of expatriates like the one I met on the plane who would inspire new chapters and characters in The Butterfly. A sculptor from New Brunswick. A photographer from Los Angeles. A filmmaker from India. A group of musicians from Sardinia. Seoul was truly a meeting place of artists from around the world. I was in a new country, immersed in a new culture. I had the time and money to create. I was introduced to the most eccentric and interesting characters I have ever had the pleasure, and sometimes displeasure, of meeting. It was a young writer's dream. And I lived it!

A journey to a foreign land is much more than an adventure, it's a great lesson; and for three years of my life Korea was my teacher, and this teacher brought into my life all the people and experiences—positive and negative—I would need for spiritual growth.

So long as you are not infected by Christopher Columbus Syndrome, and you respect the student-teacher relationship between traveler and country, you will grow in your travels in ways you will only fully realize and appreciate with time. At least that has been my experience.

In the three years I lived in Korea I learned more about myself and the world than college and university combined. And this is not a criticism of Western education, but a testament to the value and importance of travel in our lives.

The Butterfly began in an accounting class in Montreal, Canada and was completed in a small apartment in Seoul, Korea. It would be impossible to convey the respect and gratitude I have for Korea in a mere introduction.

But like any grateful student, I bow humbly to my teacher to show my appreciation. Not for introducing me to the most amazing dishes in the world (Kim Chi, Kalbi, and Dok Poki); nor for the opportunity to train Tae Kwon Do at Yogin University; nor for instilling within me a great love of hiking; but for bringing me closer to my true authentic self; for showing me myself through others; for helping me break through my creative chrysalis.



Storytellers often say all great stories end with their beginnings. The Butterfly was completed in Korea several years ago. It left when my teacher deemed my lessons were over. And I returned home to share those lessons with the tribe.



Now the fable has returned. Now it is being translated into Hangul so that all my wonderful Korean friends will be able to read my story about the brave little caterpillar who just wanted to be real. It is the classic example of the student showing the teacher what he has learned. It is the student giving back to the teacher who gave him so much. There is no greater honor. Thank you, Korea, and enjoy!

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1553694066/102-6137090-0629763

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1412001986/102-6137090-0629763

-----------------------------------------------------------------
Recommended Services- Servicedomino.com
http://www.servicedomino.com