It is only when we have moved too far afield from the divinity of creation that we begin to slip into the dark night. It is only then when we have forgotten the purpose of life, that we fall to ruins.
There comes a mysterious air sharp in the night. The world turns, dawning the first rays of a new day and yet dimly lit remains the cold ground. The skies drift darkened and gray and depressed; we fall into the cavernous questions of our Soul.
What fearful mirages bespeak here? What demonic pestilence creep and crawl through our mind?
When the caterpillar is nestled inside its chrysalis, it doesn’t merely dissolve and repurpose. It must literally digest what it has been thus far to become what it will be.
It is the tale of the warrior-mystic, the poet on the battlefield of the Soul, that lives its vision forward in the moments when we are busy making our brave attempts. We haven’t the faintest idea of what could be best to come, and yet we claw our way up the slippery slope so deathly afraid of letting go into the magic of our own transformation.
Perhaps it is death indeed, that we need—a particular type of death.
I once sat quietly with a butterfly only momentarily released from the daunting pressures of its death and rebirth. The air was vibrant and echoing the resilience of life as glory was being drawn in by the beauty witnessed through the eyes of only one. We were surrounded by the vast cyclical motion of the forest and contained in the microcosmic expression of its rhythmic movement.
The perils of creation were laid awesome before me, and I was moved to the core as I witnessed the magic of first flight. This being had come through the tribulations that each of us must face in the great metamorphosis of our lives.
In this way, I invite you, those who may be hurting and struggling, morning and doubting, to once and for all, let what has been You, die away.
Do this—digest what has been, repurpose yourself, break free from the chrysalis into your new form—and fly.