Butterfly Effect

80.

From one of my favorite psych classes I recall that chaos theory suggests that the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one area of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later area. The reference is to the effects felt in Boulder, Colorado of the butterfly flapping her wings in Kyoto. The international web of connectivity eventually ensnares us all. This was the basis for my decision of many years ago to be more precise with my language, replacing the weasel words; some, most, very, many, lots, often, with their more accurate counterparts: Ten, ninety-seven percent, positive, all, two dozen or daily. Once prone to exaggeration and hyperbole, especially with use of the superlative, I now make an honest effort to cut the rhetorical fat to the bone, especially when an objective response is the most direct connection between the point A of question and the point B of a truthful response. The minute I feel the need for a CYA response for an action I have taken, we lose the trail, fall off-course and miss the golden opportunity to inspect the potential ways and means to do it better the next time. This is not an easy lesson, as I found the chaos theory and its poetic metaphor of the magical Monarch to be, but rather something that must be endured, experienced and nurtured. These are my thoughts as we stand at the scuttlebutt sipping horribly weak coffee. 

Davis is first to breach the subject asking about my overall health. He knows the emotional and physiological toll that our missions extract and the physical demands they require. As teammates and then leaders of elite special forces, we recognized early on the special talents we shared in endurance, stamina and the ability to maintain a steady focus as, like Cap used to say ‘when shit falls from the sky.’

“OK, I think,” is my lame response, as if powered by the weakness of the joe. “Takes more and more time in recovery, I can tell you that, and my explosive power is down a notch, I have, as we used to say, lost a step. Those are the facts, as painful as it is to say.” 

“I hear ya. Remember the Commander-in-Chief’s game against Army when I separated my shoulder?” He asks.

“Corner of the end zone, fade route, go ahead score, outstanding catch mate.” 

“Perfect pass, and they tell me later you were about to get creamed by that number 99 animal, so all the more impressive. But the shoulder never quite healed and now is arthritic and hurts like hell when I have to raise overhead, even light stuff,” he confides.

“You mean Smith, the guy who played nine years with the Steelers, got a pair of Super Bowl rings and even wrote a book about his football and life at West Point?” 

“That’s the one.”

He asks, “You never read his book?” 

“No, never found the time between Proust and Kundera. Should I?

“If your ego ever needs stroking, he says you were the best competitor he ever faced, bar none.” 

“No shit?’

“No shit.” 

“Ready to get back at it?” he says, rinsing his coffee mug in the sink. 

“On three.”

We set a course back to the conference room. For some reason, and I know it wasn’t the coffee, I feel invigorated and energized, like the musician coming back to stage after a long encore-demanding ovation. We sit opposite each other, Davis turns the small camera on, takes a deep breath and looks at me ready to resume. 

“What?” he asks noticing something odd in my expression or body language. 

“Butterfly Effect.”