I'm not sure where to start because if I told you all of it you would be reading a book. And I'm not writing a book. I'm just going to share my butterfly story. Kim is the beginning of the butterflies.

I've known Kim all of my life and yet I met him three months ago. He was telling his story on the same day I learned that I was "impacted." Impacted means laid off, let go, set free. Dan walked up to me and said, "You should talk with Kim. He's doing what you want to do."

I tried to introduce myself but he was in the middle of another conversation. I chatted with someone else, looked up for Kim, and he was gone. As fate would have it (and my husband's good will) I was sitting across from Kim at lunch the following week.

Kim said many things. "You have to have your ending before you can begin again." I told him how I was having trouble doing the simplest things. Paperwork was too big a deal. It was piling up around me and closing in on me. Getting organized would fix me but I couldn't budge.

Kim told me about caterpillars and cocoons. "Linda, do you know what happens in the cocoon?" I hadn't spent much time thinking about caterpillars. I was too busy working for a high tech global company. We were about fast - email, audio conference calls, instant message, deadlines, and high adrenaline.

"If you cut open the cocoon, you might think you would see the beginnings of a butterfly, a wing formation, or other body parts. Not so. It's just yellow goo." Kim said cocooning is a precious time. And getting organized was not a "goo activity."

I wasn't sure about this butterfly thing. I just needed to stop crying, get busy and find a new job. I didn't get it. I was the one who taught "Transition Change Management, Resiliency, and How to Communicate to Impacted Employees." I knew it all, all of the grief stages, what to expect, and how to move on. All the knowing in the world had not prepared me for my feelings.

I had given so much and achieved many accomplishments and promotions. It didn't make me feel any better that I was one of the 10,000 employees who lost their job. Come on, get over it, it's not as if you were fired.

It's as if it didn't matter. It's as if "I" didn't matter. In ten minutes it was over. My boss said, "Can I at least give you a hug?" Feeling numb, I hugged her, walked out of the building and that was it.

Kim told me that all of the products and programs that were so important to him are no longer at the company where he spent so many years of his life. "Try to remember the people you touched, the people who touched you." There were so many people.

My two dearest friends, Sylvia and Venita. I've left them. Left them to get coffee on their own. Drive to lunch by themselves. My instant message status is permanently set to "away."

I cried because I cared. I cried every day for weeks. I said goodbye with as much grace as I could muster. And I sat in the yellow goo.

I was a boss, a leader, and I was walking out on my team. They were the biggest gift. In a world of brainy robot-like engineers, my team stood out. We were the touchy-feely group that loved dance, music, art, computers, and God.

And so it was that without ever mentioning Kim or butterflies, my team bought me a butterfly garden for my "going away" present. The caterpillars were mailed to my door step.

I had plenty of time to watch my caterpillars grow. I set them on a shelf just above my computer. They moved around some and it was slow and beautiful. Peaceful. Did I really want that frantic pace? Was it possible that something else awaited me?

I shared my butterfly story with a group of women. Sally had recently joined our group. She sat in her nurse's uniform, tired from a long day's work. Sally really listened when you talked. She hung on every word as if you were the most important person in the world to her. She lit up when I shared about the butterflies. They weren't even butterflies yet.

My five year old grandson liked to sneak into my home office and watch the caterpillars. He knew we had to be still and quiet and not disturb them. I sat next to him as he watched the caterpillars hanging in their cocoons. He whispered in the smallest voice, "chrysalids." I wondered how he knew, who taught him such a big word. Yes the caterpillars had turned into hard, iridescent chrysalids. They hadn't budged in weeks, yet the transformation was taking place.

Sally said, "I'm grateful to learn that I can transform while being still." She waited to talk with me but someone else had grabbed my attention. And like Kim, I looked up and she was gone. I wanted to get to know Sally more. I felt a connection to her.

At the end of week I received a call from a friend telling me that Sally had died suddenly. It was Thanksgiving week and my parents were visiting. I couldn't shake the news from me. I found it so hard to believe. On Monday there was a Rosary for Sally. That night I went into my home office. It wasn't my usual routine. I felt pulled and followed the impulse.

I had stared at the chrysalids for days now. There was no indication of anything happening. AND now there was one butterfly. Sally's butterfly! The following morning I attended Sally's funeral. The church was packed with Sally's friends and family. Standing room only. God's overwhelming presence calmed me. At the grave side I stood next to a friend. As they lowered Sally into the ground, Connie trembled, "I am so cold." I stood as close as I could quietly holding Connie. And that night I had three butterflies, beautiful Painted Lady specimens spreading their wings!

I can't believe that one butterfly has survived this long. It's as if she is waiting until I tell her story. She is hanging on. For days the butterfly garden was quiet. The flowers and orange slices dry. I had fed my butterflies daily. Taking time to pick fresh flowers, soaking them in sugar water, and then watching the butterflies feed. When it got quiet I couldn't bring myself to throw away the garden. Not until I finished my story. So I hadn't fed them for at least three days. I was sad every time I glanced over. I was getting used to the flitting, the soft noises, the flapping of wings. What a nice surprise to hear the flutter again. I opened the netting and placed some new juicy fruit in the garden. And now I must sit down and finish the story.

Butterflies live an average of two to four weeks. It's been six weeks now and ten weeks since my last day on the job.

I've rested, cried, danced and sang Christmas songs. I chopped vegetables, made salads, baked cookies and bread. I shopped and wrapped presents and spent afternoons with my grandchildren. I stopped wearing a watch. I stopped checking my email. I walked with my dogs and sat alone in coffee shops. I spent time with my family and my friends, listening to them as if they were the most important person in the world. Because they are - the programs and projects are all gone. It's the people that are important to me. Those that I have touched and those that have touched me.

"I am grateful to learn that I can transform while being still."

And now I am beginning to flit from flower to flower, trying on new things for the next chapter of my life. Spreading my wings, imagining a life with time to stare at caterpillars!