Becoming

If I were a caterpillar, maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, rearranging myself. You arrive at that midpoint when the outside has influenced, pushed, molded you in ways you didn’t plan and decide, “Enough, it’s time.”

The cocoon blocks it all, is necessary. How else can one let go of oneself? Inside, the cells can say, “I’ve always fancied being a wing, taking flight”. And so the caterpillar wiggles into something new, like slipping out of a tight dress. 

But it’s more than that holding me back. I donate suits, heels, strange things I had worn – why? To fit in? Who was I then? I don’t recognize my own wings in the mirror. So much has changed, but me, have I?

My body tries to melt, sweat pours out but there’s no cocoon and it’s just heat. I haven’t prepared for this, I have no idea what my body needs. The gray tyrant filling my head is surprised when we, the rest of us, no longer function. 

“Good god, what’s the matter with you? Get up!” 

But even he has lost his control. We see he’s just 3 lbs, easily duped by the world, not the leader we need. Maybe once, but not now.

If I had listened to the vibrating leaves which the caterpillars thump with their rump, maybe I would have felt the changes coming. I could have woven a web of safety, tucked myself in so that the world can’t see, a place where all of me could fancy this or that, where all of my cells would be empowered, we could unionize and reform the tyrant. A cocoon of unity, led by our natural rhythm, is that what it takes? 

Inside it feels like words aren’t built for this. 

Inside I’m all me, cells moving about, making anew, living, dying, growing. Even co-habituating peacefully with cells that aren’t me but help me and are we all me? Are we all we? 

I sometimes forget to listen to the thump in my chest, can’t hear it over the disruptive rants in my head, and it’s the same pounding of the surf, blowing of the wind, unfurling of a flower, as we hold our ground and spin on a slant through space.

If all that is possible, surely you can rearrange yourself.

How did I get so rigid swimming in this sea of ourself? When did I lose my fluidity? My body rebels, overloaded, spills out of a bra or jeans, ripples down my back, like a caterpillar perhaps. When the caterpillar is full, is that when they know it’s time? Is my body telling me this too? 

You are full, you are enough. It’s time to let go of all of this, let it flow into what comes next.

And only then do I hear us whisper, “we’ve always fancied taking flight.”