I am building a cocoon.
My husband, the grasshopper, begs me not to. Just jump, he says. Look, I can do it. Our kids can do it, too. It makes us so happy!
He loves the feeling of flying through the air, soaring above the ground, lifted by wings. He feels the most peace in the flying.
I try, and I jump, but caterpillars can’t jump far. How do you do that so gracefully? I ask. How can I jump when I’m weighed down by gravity and my feet can’t let go?
I believe, my husband says. I believe and hold to that belief, and so I jump. Look, my wings help me soar! Isn’t this happiness? He asks.
I try again. I desperately want that happiness and jumping must be the way. Everyone I love is a jumper. They all jump around me, sometimes weighed down by their own gravity, but still able to jump and fly through the air. And that is where they find happiness.
But still, I can’t jump. I long for that happiness, the soaring through the air, but no matter how hard I try or call out or scream, no desperation is enough to create the lift I need.
And then all at once,I feel a pull. I’m ready for something, but it’s not for the jumping, but for the changing and waiting. The agonizing change to become something else entirely.
My cocoon needs to be built.
Don’t build it, they beg. Don’t change. Just keep trying to jump with us. That’s what will bring you true joy. Focus on the steps. Focus on being lifted. Don’t focus on the gravity keeping you on the ground.
But the pull becomes stronger than their voices, than anyone’s voice. My own voice begs from the innermost parts of me to be heard. Please, please hear me. You are meant for something more than just wishing.
I find a branch, away from the group. They watch me go with sorrowed faces, scared of the change and the distance.
I climb along the branch, marveling at the sudden and intense awareness of my surroundings. Up here, on this branch, I see a lot that I couldn’t see before.
I find a spot that feels safe and I begin to wrap myself in the home of waiting and belonging.
