Blossoming

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~ Anais Nin

I think about blossoming all the time, because I am the mother of three daughters. I have one in the middle of adolescence, one just ready to start, and one watching her older sisters very carefully, pushing the boundaries for what I consider appropriate behavior for an eight-year-old.

They are all blossoming. It is an amazing and beautiful thing to watch your daughters blossom. I ache for them, I am their best cheerleader, I watch over them, I support them, I love them. They blossom in spite of anything I do. They blossom at their own time, in their own way. And it is an amazing process to watch.

I find myself in forced blossoming right now, kind of like a hothouse flower, or a bulb that we force in midwinter, after keeping it in the cold and dark for a while to allow it to regenerate. savvygardener.com says, “The term forcing refers to inducing a plant to produce its shoot, leaf, and flower ahead of its natural schedule and out of its natural environment.” That would be my life, right now – out of schedule and natural environment.

Blossoming.

Merriam Webster online tells me that to blossom is to come into one’s own. Is that what the universe wants me to hear, by placing me, some with my permission and active encouragement, some without warning and very little volition on my part, in so many situations at once that have caused me to lose my equilibrium? Divorce, job loss, identity crisis, loss of calling: all happening at once. Is it time to come into my own?

For far too many years, I lived without a lover. That was a sad and lonely time in my life. That was the cold winter of my love, the time for my essential core to build its roots. When you force bulbs, the cold period is the period that allows the bulbs to develop their root system. Without that time, the bloom will come up short and distorted. Perhaps that’s why it took me so long to initiate a divorce – I was building up my root system, developing a support system of friends to see me through into my new life. My blossoming.

Job loss.

That was a shock to my system. Perhaps I need to move over to Monarch butterflies for the metaphor that makes sense in my life. Monarchs start life as eggs, and the eggs hatch into pupa. Pupa shed their skins four times over their larval stage. Am I shedding another skin? Was my first career back in the work force a job that I needed for my growth as a human?

I went through four separate and distinct stages as a religious educator. First, walking into a church for the first time in over 20 years, and finding a place that could be a religious and spiritual home. I hadn’t thought that was possible. That must have been my hatching from the egg stage, finding myself on this miraculous milkweed-like place where I could feed myself, even gorge myself on the kind of spiritual growth that I hadn’t found in my entire lifetime.

Second, working for a tiny congregation, where I learned what it meant to be a religious educator. Third, working as a youth advisor at camp, where I learned just how much growth is possible in a human in a short amount of time (for the youth and for me). Fourth, working for a larger congregation, where I learned how it might be possible to fly, where I made the contacts that are in my life right now who are helping me survive, grow and thrive. That was also the first job that gave me the financial freedom to think about leaving my marriage.

And now, this last change I’m in the middle of? I think maybe I’m in my chrysalis stage. Butterflies shed not only their skin a fifth and final time during the chrysalis stage, they kick the entire caterpillar body off (head, eyes, antennae, stripes and legs). That’s about how I feel right now. Blind, not able to hear or see what’s coming next, wondering how I will move on in life with my legs pulled out from under me, my insides a complete mush from all that’s happened to me. Chrysalis soup, from which a miracle can climb.

The final stage of a Monarch is the butterfly stage. She climbs out wet, with wrinkled wings, and slowly fans them until they are pumped full of blood and she can fly off into her new and exciting life, totally transformed.

I’m listening to Meg Barnhouse’s song Chrysalis right now, thinking about breaking out of my chrysalis. Maybe it’s time to break through my walls. Maybe the falling apart is really just an unfurling of my wings.

I've got to tell you something important you need to know.
You're going to be fine.
They said the walls were there for protection. That used to be true.
It's time to break through.
Butterfly, you can try your bright wings. Let your colors fly.
A chrysalis really is a fine thing -- 'til it's time to take the sky.
It feels like it's all falling apart. What's happening is an unfurling.
Where do you migrate? How do you get there?
When it's time to go, you'll know.
Butterfly, you can try your bright wings. Let your colors fly.
A chrysalis really is a fine thing -- 'til it's time to take the sky.
Wishing you honey, wishing you sunlight; a little rain -- not too much pain.
And in the end, your body may break, but your spirit's due to surprise you.
Butterfly, you can try your bright wings. Let your spirit fly.
A chrysalis really is a fine thing -- 'til it's time to take the sky.
--Meg Barnhouse, Chrysalis, Mango Thoughts in a Meatloaf Town