I watched a video yesterday of a caterpillar becoming a rather furry, scruffy looking moth. Not a monarch butterfly that emerges resplendent after an appropriate length of time in a delicate pupa without windows. The process is hidden from sight mostly until the unfurling, the stretching of glorious wings.
I am not a monarch butterfly.
I watched the process for the furry, scruffy moth.
It had to slough off its skin several times.
Over and over again.
Convulsing to stretch its long tail from the confines of old skin.
And then it ate the old skin.
Finally after many ugly looking efforts of sloughing off and eating old skin,
It builds a really ugly cocoon of what looks like vomit spittle.
Inside it convulses with its morphing into new life.
It finally emerges.
Like something, only a mother could love.
Wet, squeezed out of shape, exhausted but it has no time to waste. Life is short.
It finally becomes what it was meant to become.
A scruffy looking moth. Not a monarch. A moth.
The only difference between it and me is that I will
compare myself to the monarch and bemoan my fate.
Slowly comes the wisdom I need to live.
Slowly I come to embrace the miracle that once I
was a caterpillar made of dying layers of skin that
I had to shed and eat to survive.
Now....I can fly.
Don't know for how long or why or how far.
The bumpy journey continues.
For right now, this furry, scruffy moth can fly.