The following is my response to a prompt about what comes up for me when I think about transitions during a Keylings (a writers group of which I am a very inconsistent member) session in September 2021.
There’s a scene in the first episode of season two of Wu-Tang: An American Saga where Bobby aka Prince Rakeem aka RZA is captivated by a caterpillar in his jail cell and how it could have possibly gotten in there. After a time lapse of a month, Bobby is now staring at a cocoon. His cellmate comments on how the caterpillar “locked itself up in its own box. Guess it figured there was no point in fighting the inevitable.”
Bobby meets with his lawyer about going to trial and fighting to be free, but his lawyer seems to be more invested in the process than he is. Bobby is resigned to his current circumstance and has pretty much given up on everything. His dreams of pursuing music no longer light him up nor are they strong enough to motivate him to want to get out. To be free again.
Back to the cell. Back to the cocoon. It’s empty. His cellmates have decided to keep it as a pet. Bobby taps the cup they’ve got it trapped under. Once he hears the new creature flutter its wings, he slowly lifts the cup, allowing it to fly away. The next thing we see is Bobby being released on bail paid with money he'd not too long ago told his family to use for more important things than getting him out.
There is something so poetic, so hip hop, about the use of the butterfly motif. It’s probably also an overused cliché but to me, it never gets old.
In 2018, bees would not leave me alone. But lately, butterflies have been visiting me. Unlike bees, butterflies don’t linger for too long. Because of that, whenever I spot one, I stop whatever I’m doing and stare at it until it’s gone. I take in its beauty. I’m captivated, like Bobby, by what it took to be what it is in its current form. I try my best to drink in the patience and strength, the staying power, necessary to see such a powerful transition through to the other side.
I wonder. Are there some caterpillars that don’t make it? Are there some that get so exhausted that their innate biology becomes too much to bear? Are there some that never get their wings?
I used to think all of my transitions were just as weighty as the caterpillar’s simply because they were challenging. Throughout my life, I’ve been notorious for being resistant to change and for crumbling in the process. My cousin Felisha very bluntly said to me last year, “you don’t do transitions well!” No one had ever made it that plain for me. So, I graciously resolved with myself that I would get better at transitions.
With an acute awareness of the cocoon I’m currently tightly wound up in, I realize not only do all of my previous transitions pale, but so will future transitions, in comparison to this one.
This transition is weighty. It feels innate and unavoidable. It feels destined which is why I wonder about the caterpillars that don’t survive. Sometimes it is heavy enough to want to stop, to decline the rest of the journey and sit comfortably where I am. I want to give up on this unknown path before me and say no. Enough is enough, and I’m exhausted. Of course, deep down, discontentment and disappointment actually bubble up, but at least I’m no longer in pain, right? At least, I get some relief from the headaches induced by regular weeping?
My community has been on the receiving end of earfuls from me about all the transitions I have been navigating the last few years. Quitting my first adult job, finishing grad school, working too many part-time jobs at once, moving to Costa Rica, grieving the loss of relationships with both those living and those no longer earth side, moving to California, moving back to Boston, health struggles, money problems, a new job after prolonged unemployment, etcetera, etcetera. (2023 Jennifer here: I've both moved again and started another new job since then).
It feels like the hits keep coming. I am alone often. I am often lonely. I have discovered so many pieces of myself, dreams waiting to be uncovered, traumas buried deep. And I have learned how to hope in the waiting. I have grown more secure in my gifts and talents. I have opened myself to imagining a life I deemed impossible for so so long. Basically, the duality of life is in full effect, and I don’t know that I can handle the ups and downs especially when it so often feels for naught.
It often feels like I’m stuck in the dead end of believing, like nothing is enough. Not my patience, not my striving, not my rest, not my baby steps, not my healing. So many things appear to be moving, but is it really that the puzzle pieces are circulating around me while I stand in the center unable to reach them?
How do I honor my call and desire to serve birthing people while my own reproductive system is betraying me and I can’t seem to complete my doula certification requirements beyond my training? How do I stay committed to being a writer when my practice is all out of whack and every opportunity I apply to or pitch I submit comes back with a resounding no? How do I continue to admit I want to be partnered and build a healthy family when perpetual singledom stays parked outside my home? How do I live out the innate generosity of my heart when the reality of being one pay period or one emergency away from a dire situation breeds what feels like an unconquerable fear?
Many days, the journey is beautiful enough and worth it on its own. Those are the days when I laugh often from the depths of my belly, sing my forgotten favorite songs, and feel whole and touched by divinity. Many other days, I am running in place with the target moving further and further away. Those are the days I avoid creating because it’s too painful, cry and wonder if God hears me, and choose to believe my community is as tired of me as I am of myself.
Don’t confuse this piece with hope. Because hope often makes a fool of me. It is instead an attempt at naming the present reality. The truth. No dismissing, nor glorifying. It is appreciation for An American Saga. Though we already know the legend that becomes Wu Tang Clan, the show displays the slow process, the part we often don’t see and the part where we often give up. The stuckness. The disbelief. The giving up. The resignation to the cocoon.
Cover photo: Tim Krochak via SaltWire
Beautifully and honestly said! Thanks for sharing, friend!