When I’m in an ambitious domestic mood, I will sometimes make two pans of enchiladas instead of one, or a second batch of pancakes since I’m already flipping…..these extra meals go in to the freezer. On a later date, when I’m too tired or overwhelmed to cook, I pull them out with abundant gratitude, exclaiming, “That was so considerate of ‘other me’ to make this. ‘Other me’ is my hero! ‘Other me’ put in all that effort back then so I wouldn’t have to struggle today…Thank you, ‘other me’!” My kids think it’s hilarious and always chime in with an “Other me, Twin Mother me” rendition of the Richard Chamberlain classic (from Slipper and the Rose).As we went through this little ritual recently it got me thinking about all of the ‘other me’s that have contributed to my current experience. The terrified child that navigated a dangerous world alone. The tortured teen, strangled by fear, who persevered in the darkness. The young adult that stood against fear with all her might, but was knocked down again and again. The desperate Mother that loved me through the fight, who held the torch when hope was fading, and finally carried me to victory. I never thought to thank those versions of me and yet I owe all the peace and freedom I enjoy now to their struggle then.
Healing can be a rather ugly process. The idea of metamorphosis comes to mind as I ponder my own healing journey and each passing phase that led me through so much growth.
The caterpillar phase is hard to be proud of, when I was ugly, destructive, and gluttonous. When I consumed without thought and was fairly considered a pest.
But, hindsight offers a silver lining I hadn’t considered before: That phase, that version of myself is the one that inched me upward, from the dark undergrowth to the tips of leaves and petals. She found nourishment and fed me the only way she knew how. She let light in to my life and showed me a new perspective. And that version of myself, primitive and desperate, diligently built a cocoon, a stronghold of safety and rest in which I could eventually escape the cycle of monotony and survival. She somehow carried an instinct that the only way out… was in.
The cocoon phase, when I zipped myself into a secret nest, hid away from the world and fell apart, is another source of shame. I don’t often talk of that time. It was dark in there. I was in the midst of change and knew there was no going back. I wasn’t who I once was and had no idea who I was becoming. I felt suffocated by the unknowns and it was terrifying.
But, that phase, that incredibly brave version of myself, was the one that protected me for a time. She gave me space to understand, to refine, and redefine myself. Outside of my protected pocket, people were curious, disgusted, or indifferent to my experience. Inside, I was wrestling with hard truths, facing demons, and becoming a new creature without any judgment, prying eyes, or distractions. And when I was ready, when I had found my strength, reformed and ready to live again, she released me.
The phase that followed my dark sabbatical was rather disorienting. I emerged with damp, crumpled wings, new and strange. I stood on shaky legs, seeing the world again after a long, tumultuous absence. I took a brave step forward and then two back again. I doubted myself. I smiled at the sun and questioned my new identity. I felt a new calling, a powerful purpose gently tugging at me – to fly! But, my wings were heavy and surreal and I wondered how a lowly caterpillar could have the audacity to suddenly call herself a butterfly. This version of myself is me -right now, dizzy with new possibilities, bravely nudging myself forward as I am learning to live again.
The final phase is one I haven’t experienced yet. My wings are still drying. But, I have a feeling it will be the phase where I learn to trust myself, honor my truth, show myself grace, and finally fly! It will have a beauty all it’s own and I owe the present and coming freedom, this new lease on life, all the hard earned courage and emerging confidence, and these beautiful wings…to all the ‘other me’s who carried me here.
So, to all those other versions of myself – who struggled, fought, dreamed, survived, hoped, endured, cared, comforted, persevered, encouraged, fell apart, and put us back together again…..
THANK YOU.
TRULY.Change Is Hard — Where This Story Continues
Within
Courage to Change — 15 oz Mug
Trust the Transformation – Premium Tote Bag
Winged Mosaic
Ella was one tough chick. We brought her home from the feed store with a mixed batch of baby chickens and guineas. She was the odd one out, a little yellow runt. As she grew and lost her fluff, she developed pure white feathers…a stark contrast to the colorful bunch around her. She was smaller and leaner than the rest, but fast and fierce.
I have a set of cousins – twins – a few years older than me. They acted as stand-in big brothers and I absolutely idolized them. They were clever, kind, and SO cool. The summer before I entered highschool they began teasing me, making radical claims that seniors (them) couldn’t be seen fraternizing with lowly freshman (me) and playfully threatened to act like they didn’t know me all year to protect their own reputations.
Maybe I’m just nosy, but not knowing Mona Lisa’s true identity or why Titian used that particular shade of red drives me mad. I just love a good backstory. A heartbreak behind a song lyric, the namesake of a book character, or the actual meal that inspired a recipe…those stories bring it all to life for me. As an artist, I know every painting, sculpture, or textile…every piece of jewelry, comic strip, or quilt…every architectural design, garden, or hairstyle…all began with an idea…an inspiration…a moment.
