People always think I’m joking when I tell them I’m allergic to caterpillars. Even those in the medical field respond with “Beg your pardon?” or “That’s a new one!” The first thing in my life that I can recall is the day I learned I was allergic to caterpillars. I was in preschool and we had discovered woolly caterpillars crawling all over a tree on the playground. I was delighted and began to touch them, pick them up, and eventually let them crawl on my arms and legs. The rest of the day involved extreme discomfort, hives, rashes, and itching that couldn’t be lessened by bathing or any sort of topical treatment. To this day, when I see a caterpillar, I overreact a bit to make sure we don’t make contact with one another.
Interestingly, I don’t seem to be allergic to butterflies. I haven’t spent a lot of time in contact with them, but I’ve certainly touched them, and I’ve had no allergic reaction. It’s like once they’ve spent some time all wrapped up in their cocoons, sort of hibernating away from the rest of the world, and make that transformation into a new being, our interactions have completely different results.
I spent this winter in hibernation. I wanted to hunker down with the comforts of home, close friends, and family, seeking solace in the simplest things, like cuddling on the couch and watching a movie or reading a book. My cocoon was somewhat involuntary. It was there to prevent aftershocks, rebounds, and additional instances of poor judgment in undeserving people. Much like a child who’s been startled at someone jumping out of the darkness, I found myself carrying a metaphorical flashlight at all times, or avoiding the “dark” places altogether.
I wasn’t done healing, the wounds were still seeping. I was still flushing the toxicity from my system that came from the events I experienced last spring and summer. I also didn’t want anyone looking for their missing parts in my junk yard, because I felt I had nothing I could bear to part with, needing each and every scrap for my own survival. I fed myself spiritually and got on the path I'd danced around for so long, but never truly committed to in all the ways that I needed to.
But now spring has come, in more ways than one. Everything’s not resolved or forgotten, and there is still hurt that remains, promises that weren’t kept, and “let downs” of enormous proportions. I'm still afraid. And yet, after a season of rest and renewal, of self-protection and self-preservation, I think this may be my time to emerge from my cocoon. I may look different than I did before. After all, I am changed.
So many new people and new opportunities have come into my life, and I want to explore them, relish them, allow them to lift me up and permit myself to give again – hopefully without being ripped off in every sense of the word. I intend on spreading my wings and doing some flying as the Earth is reborn. Time is so short. Perhaps shorter than I can fathom. And while a period of solitude is understandable (and cocoons are comfy), it is not a permanent solution. It’s time to spend more time laughing than crying, time to do more celebrating and less mourning. It’s time to dream, and dream big. My cocoon has split due to my growth. Here I am. Let’s do this.
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