It's tempting for us, when we encounter a person - or a butterfly - as a chrysalis to be hands on; to reach out and free them. After all, we can see the potential. We anticipate what could be. If only. And it's been through so much already, what with losing it's skin five times in its 2 weeks of life. Pulling some of the chrysalis off or softening it a bit couldn't hurt could it?
Of course, if we interfere, we'll cut short the metamorphosis. What could be will not.
Sometimes the best we can do, it seems, is be there to watch and encourage the change.
All the while, inside, remarkable things are unfolding. A chewing mouth morphs into a strawlike tongue. Strong, bright, vibrant wings stretch from the caterpillar. A creepy crawler becomes a floater, a glider, a powerful flyer capable of shooting through the air at 30 mph, as high as 12,00 feet high and as long as 16 hours non-stop.
Which - of course, makes it the perfect running companion.
Then, there it is. Change is made. A new normal.
Sometimes, Denise will have a few caterpillars in a container in her office. She and her clients eagerly wait for the transformation once the chrysalis is formed. Soon - there'll be a concrete vision of hope joyfully flapping its wings, ready to be released by the tearfully encouraged man, woman or child.
The butterfly never seems to emerge while being watched. Rather, its a lot like Mike Birbiglia describes the auto crash he was in a few years ago. T-boned by a guy under the influence, he says, was like a water slide where you are on your back and then fall vertically at incredible speed - it's like you are in the shower and then you are on that slide. It happens suddenly, without warning, but even more - overwhelmingly, without us even necessarily noticing it is happening until it has happened. And, oddly, or not, it's somehow perfectly natural.
Butterflies speak volumes in their silent struggle. We resist our chrysalis stages of life. They embrace them, loading up on the nutrients they need and then crawling long distances to find just the right spot for their 2 week changeover. We fight with our bodies; pushing them 'into shape,' bemoaning the natural effects of aging, complaining, pushing, pulling. Our legs say, 'rest.' We say, 'One more mile,' or, 'OK, I'm sick of running anyway. I think I'm done. For good.' Our mouths say, 'drink.' We say, 'You can wait,' or 'Here, have too much.'
Butterflies listen to their bodies. They accept the pain for what it is - part of the journey of life. Don't resist it. Don't ignore it. Just see it for what it is. And then, fly, fly, fly.
I am often deaf to the lessons of the butterfly.
Shortly after moving to Georgetown, I attempted one Wednesday night to wrestle a 10th grade guy - showing him, I suppose, that while I was new to him, that I wasn't a hip, young youth minister (or a hip, young anything for that matter) - I could still be fun.
I say attempted because he just kind of stood their looking at me as I put my arm around his shoulder, tugged on him to take him to the ground and instead pulled my left hamstring. I fell to the ground in excruciating pain while he, still, just stood their looking at me, a befuddled look on his face. He was gracious enough to never say anything. Not that he needed to. His expression spoke loudly and clearly.
The next morning I woke up with the most God-awful bruise I've ever had. Twelve shades of purple and red covered my entire upper leg. The next day it looked worse.
Getting some attention may have been wise. Getting some rest certainly would have been advisable. Yet, there I was on Friday, limping up and down the hills of Mallard Point pretending it didn't hurt. The next weekend I was scheduled to run the Horsey 5 K, part of Georgetown's annual Festival of the Horse with the Swicegoods. My body said, 'Not a good idea.' My pride said, 'You have no choice.'
I ran. The slowest, most ridiculously painful 5K of my life. Scott started the race hanging back with me, but soon saw what a drag I was being and took off. By the time I staggered in all I really wanted to do was collapse in a hole somewhere.
This should have convinced me to take some time off.
Instead, within 2 days I was back out, refusing to allow myself to heal.
By Thanksgiving that fall, I'd twisted my ankle and hurt my knee while overcompensating for the pain, straining to keep going, adjusting my stride in radically unnatural ways.
Eventually I had to stop for weeks rather than days. I gained weight. I got grumpy. I slowed down. It was not good. All because I refused to listen.
It's possible, of course, to think we are listening and go the opposite direction. I could, just as easily, have pulled my hamstring and decided, 'I am too old for youth ministry. I am too old to run,' and sat down. For good.
I'd have had the same end result.
You don't see a lot of rotund butterflies perched on fences saying, 'Screw it, I'm done.' I've not happened upon any half caterpillar-half butterflies carting around their chrysalis like an ratty shirt saying, 'I just couldn't take it any more. I'll do my time like this, thanks very much.'
Sometimes, when I'm running along Crumbaugh, out past Kentuckiana Farms, I'll be joined by a Monarch Butterfly. He(?) will flutter a fence row or two ahead and light on a post, then take off again, always staying just a bit ahead as I draw closer. Over and over and over again until it engrosses me.
Straining, I can hear its coaching.
'Pace yourself.'
'Listen to your legs.'
'Breathe.'
'This is not a race. Nothing is.'
'You have nothing to prove to anyone.'
'Just run.'
'Shhhh.'
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