Fluidity

Time and again, during recent years, I've felt as if my Being was fluid; sometimes even vaporous; like all that I was, was melting down and reforming; atom separated from atom.

These times usually bring to mind the caterpillar in the chrysalis, liquifying in order to be transformed into a beautiful butterfly.

The process is usually quite painful, as solid constructs are ground down to sand; patterns of thought and behavior, like familiar paths deeply worn, are diverted  in new and foreign directions . . . all that I’ve held onto for security, melts away.

When I feel vaporous, I picture myself; my Being, as a 3D puzzle, a jumble of pieces floating  in the air, looking for a place to fit.  As all pieces are in motion, it is possible for the entire picture to be reformed . . . parts no longer needed; no longer healthy, can be edged out . . . perhaps new, healthier pieces (or patterns) are added, and all that remains gradually settles into something new.

This seems to be an ongoing cycle.  Change cannot happen without something bending, breaking, melting, shifting . . . in order to reform.  Sometimes it feels like the instrument of change is fire that burns away what is not useful; not part of my true self.

Each time, I've found myself a little more solid;

a little more my true, meant to be, self. 

Like coming home. 

I used to think this was all being done to me by forces outside myself.

Now, I believe this is something I’ve welcomed: work that happens in harmony with the Spirit of God within.

I spent many years carefully crafting my version of reality: my vision of self and how I fit in the world.  I created a black and white world of absolutes . . . what I believed, who I was, what made me valuable, what I had to offer others . . . were all clearly defined: easily communicated.

Dependable and constant . . . dependably lifeless and life draining.

My nicely designed construct solidified and calcified over the years, hence the need for cycle after cycle of being broken down and remolded; each time perhaps on a deeper level, or involving a different aspect of self.

It’s a form of death.  Death of that which brings death.  It carries me to the end of self, again and again.

Death hurts.  It’s ugly. 

But, this form of death reveals life.

Like the dead chrysalis falling away as the butterfly wings gently dry, so it can take flight.

I like to think.  Hope to think.  That I am becoming more and more the butterfly I am meant to be.

The true, unobscured, unfettered me.

fractal from: http://www.enchgallery.com