First, you have to get sick of being a caterpillar.
Weary of never-ending consumption,
outgrowing your clothes,
eyes trained on the next leaf.
Second, you have to come to a place of lethargy,
of giving up.
Stop eating. Hang upside down for a few days.
Then, you have to shed your skin.
Let it split down the back like a zipper.
Wiggle it to your feet and step out,
leaving it in a black wad on the ceiling.
Now there is no going back.
But was there ever, really?
Hang in silence now.
Go inward.
Breathe.
Learn to let go of words,
of doing,
of earning
anything.
Be perfectly still.
Let go of what you used to be.
Let go of the illusion
that you can control
what you will become.
Feel yourself melt into
a bewildering, gooey slush.
Trust.
Then one day, something will break open.
A crack will appear in your thin, plastic chrysalis,
and a new you will emerge, strange and shriveled,
but hinting at a vivid iridescence
you never dared to hope.
Now exercise your newfound patience once again.
Let your wet wings slowly smooth,
like sopping sheets on a clothesline,
Till you can wave them in greeting to the sun
and soar.
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