Chrysalis Magic

Is he happy now?  This gemstone of a butterfly, irridescent indigo, flutter floating on the summer breeze?  Does he mind being unrecognizable to his former caterpillar colleagues?  Does he miss inching on tree limbs, crunching through green foliage to fatten flesh needed for fuel?  Fuel to grow wings?  Fuel to fly?  Now, as he is sipping nectar, could he possibly pine for his earthbound days?

As the breeze whispers over his wings, he sings.  As he dips his probiscus into the heart of the fuscia to sip its nectar, he hums.  As his feet dance in the pollen dust of rose petals, he laughs.  What he would have missed, had he refused the call to chrysalis!

But oh, the terror.  He can remember it even now.  The grief of good-bye to the only form he had ever known.  True, he had outgrown his skin four times prior, but the new skin was a familiar uniform in a larger size.  He still looked like a caterpillar, and crawled like a caterpillar.  He liked being a caterpillar, and mourned his imminent death.  Goodbye to his six pair of legs, working in unison, to march him across a branch, towards a meal.  Goodbye to his woolly, scratchy coat, keeping him shielded from the prying fingers of curious children.  How he loved to curl up in a protective ball when threatened by an enemy’s beak.  And the fresh, vegetable taste of leaves, could there be anything better?  The tickle of grass on his belly?  The obstacle course of tree trunk crevices underfoot?  How, how, how could he be asked to give all of this up?

But the day came when no skin could stretch to accommodate his yearnings. Cocoon world sang its song; wove its spell.  “Come, spin, stay, dream.”  The grass began to feel less inviting. “The taste of leaves grows stale”, he thought; and then shoved away the thought as crazy, brash, impulsive.

Yet, yearning never goes away by wishing. As it happens for every caterpillar not crushed under the weight of the world, he must cease dining on the same old appetizers. He must follow the wanderlust that calls him to find a branch, upon which to hang his concerns.  To rest awhile on a button of silk of his own making ~ to hold fast to the button, when the next labor pains compel him to release one clasper at a time, until bottom up, he hangs, swinging in the breeze.

How strange it was, to be between two worlds ~ a resident of neither.  Knowing one was lost to him forever.  Not knowing the shape or form of the new one.  Knowing only that the need to enter the silence, to stay as long as necessary, was the only certainty.

He stayed.  Kept company with himself.  Through all the fears.  “What are these strange limbs I’m growing?”  Through all the nights of grief.  “I changed my mind.  I want to go back.  It was a good enough life.  I can eat leaves all my life, if that’s what it takes to recognize the shape of me.”

Still, the chrsysalis held him fast through the long hours of alone upon alone, so that the truth could seep into the gelatinous mass of what was once his caterpillar body.  Lonliness, he understood, was inescapable, and with that awareness, he did the keening cry of all those who are on the brink of the great discovery.

On the other side of an empty well of tears, a quiet stillness.  A complete surrender to what is ~ not what was or what might be wished for.  Only what is.  A curiosity.  “What is this twitch?  This desire?  This new hint of hope that urges me to break out and be free now?  In this moment?  Is it possible I was born to these wings all along?”  From reluctant exploration to triumphant flight.  An indigo butterfly gives me courage.

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