There comes a time when we are inside the chrysalis.  What was, all we have been, dissolves.  In this process there is a sense of violence; we feel destroyed.  We reach for familiar solutions, or psychological positions, those solutions, cures and allies, that helped before.  But no one is home anymore.  Home – the place we find restoration, rest, the food we need. 

We seek a familiar place of solace, open the door, and find the blast of a carnival.  Familiar characters are distorted by psychosis or evil.  Chaos rules.  Determined, we try to understand, bring balance, but the internal world, and even nature itself, resists.  Healers, therapists point to meditation, acceptance.  They tell us things we wish were true, suggest what no longer works. 

When the scaffolding of meaning fails, discipline doesn’t hold, and feeling becomes a muddle, a sense of betrayal arrives.  I think of the words of an old traditional song, “where has my help gone.”  Oddly, this is a calling song used when we are ‘one the floor.’  It is used when ‘luck’ is impoverished; when we’ve been deserted.

Into this process sometimes comes a dream of such violence that confusion and despair deepen.  We wake up sweating, heart pounding, feel attacked.  When this happens it is well to remember that the dream maker does not always quite understand our emotional reactions to the material she sends.  She is only trying to help.  She means to say that remaking is afoot.  She means to say, ‘trust me.’ 

I have always disliked the image of the mush inside the chrysalis as worm becomes butterfly, have found it disgusting and a bit trite.  Still it is apt imagery for this transformation – the dismemberment, the loss of self, the realignment.  We have to remember though that the food for butterfly is not what nourished the worm, and that the transformed perspective is wholly different. 

I wonder if the butterfly remembers what she was before she could fly.  Surely she remembers a moment of panic.  Surely in her reconfigured DNA is a memory of the green leaf. 

Or is it that deep in her essence the worm anticipated bright colors, the pollen of flowers?  Was all her effort stored against the possibility of flight?  

Many of us find that the astuteness of childhood perception, the sweetness of the vulnerable spirit, our spontaneous generosity is pruned and shaped by the adult world.  Let's assume for the moment that this activity by the culture or family values were strong enough to cause the essence of the child to retreat.  In its place there arrives a fledgling self that is adapted to the environment in which we live.  Maybe we become tougher, quieter and less expressive, more cagey.  Over time this cobbled-together-self becomes how we are in the world, the way others see us, the way we see ourselves.  It is related to strengths and inclinations, to patterns of defenses. 

I remember a conversation with my cousins about this, about how we handled the pressures of our extended family.  One said he always nodded or agreed but did as he pleased, quietly.  Another said she always spoke the ‘plain truth.’  I grew a tough veneer, fought past all good sense if injustice was at issue. 

But there comes a time when this necessary adaptation, even though it may contribute value to the world, runs out of steam.  The world dims.  Wonder is gone.  The usual means of self-affirmation don’t bring relief.  We make minor adjustments but this isn’t enough.  A spiritual emergency develops. 

One thing that makes this journey back to those original gifts so painful is that we leave the territory of security, the areas in which we feel competent, or the traits with which we identify.  Unless this transition comes as an explosive epiphany, we travel backwards, away from success and towards vulnerability.  If we have some sense of what is happening, we don’t fight this process as much.  We don't explode our lives.  

Yet, the adapted self doesn’t disappear.  She has to have her place of honor even though her role is changed.  Instead of the driver behind the wheel, she becomes the guard.  It is up to her to see what is needed by the spirit.  She is the one to set limits, boundaries, assert needs.  Her role is still powerful, somewhat like that of a gatekeeper. 

There are moments, if we are fortunate, when we can observe the process.  The generous spirit sees the need of another, the adapted self gently prompts that we not give away the car just yet.  Or the house, or one’s bank account, but cynicism or coldness or attack doesn’t have to be the means of self-protection.  A primary difference in how it was before essence is given prominence and how it is afterwards is that this quieter voice or inclination has central place.  However, it does not act alone.  Maybe, with attention and time, a third self develops – an amalgamation of the two. 

There is speculation that our original nature is the companion, or door, from this life to the next.  Maybe she is the sacred child we learn to mother.  Maybe, as in the Bible, we make of the ‘talent’ given something more, or new.