METAMORPHOSIS, noun: a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.
As I woke up this morning to 20-something degree weather, I could feel it. The desire to make a cup of coffee and hurry back to bed, to darkness, to wrap myself and my baby under the covers and go inward. That’s the beauty of this season, I believe. There is permission, a space, a longing on a cellular level to go in. Since our theme starting today and through the rest of this year is metamorphosis, I’ve spent the last few days thinking on my life and the times that I morphed, shape shifted and changed. I asked myself what was the catalyst or the need to do this. Where it originated, who I was before this change occurred, and who I became after it.
Without a doubt, the greatest metamorphosis of my life happened when my first baby, a little boy we named Bodie, couldn’t survive the preterm labor my body went into and died on his way to the outside world. During the days after February 6, 2013, I would write and cry and think and feel in my cocoon of grief. And eventually, and way before I felt ready, I had to come out into the world again; different. On March 1st our studio was opening and I had to be there to teach the first class. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see people, I didn’t want people to see me. But I danced in this new space, in this new body, in this new version of myself. The dancing and the people helped me heal in a time that I didn’t want either.
Now, 6 years later, knowing that this studio will be torn down and we will be moving into a new home feels like another metamorphosis coming. Of course there have been others between then and now, mainly marked by my three daughters whose middle names are Hope, Love and Joy and whose lives truly represent these different phases of the healing and my own transformation during these years. And I feel ready. This studio was born the same month my son died and I don’t fully understand what that all means but she has held me up for years and I will miss her. But for the first time in my entire life I finally feel whole and I can’t wait to create a new home for us all from this wholeness.
I also know that this wholeness isn’t a given forever, either. And at any time something precious could be taken from me, and I know there will be times I will go back into my cocoon, re-emerging as something else. On mornings like today my cocoon is a layer of warm blankets that I willingly wrap myself and my baby in, wishing light away for a few more minutes. Sometimes, I know, my cocoon will be a blanket of grief or fear or restlessness or desire. To change, to grow, to shed, to expand. And unlike butterflies, we as humans can go through this process many times in our lifetime, re-emerging by natural or supernatural means, a different version of ourselves. May this version be a more integrated, more whole, more healed one.
Sending love to you all wherever you are in your journeys. 🦋💗