My daughter recently told me that on her way to work she noticed a caterpillar on a too-long strand trying to weave a cocoon in the wind, causing it to struggle. The image of that cocoon shifting in the wind kept popping into my head, perhaps because I’ve felt very much like it lately—the winds of life whipping me one way and then another: uncertainty in my future direction, inability to keep a pace I would wish to, not hearing my own voice amidst the cacophony of others’ voices, and worst of all, the wind of fear that I won’t settle. All this while I work to spin a cocoon that will protect me from those very winds and allow growth. But my strand is also too long, and I am vulnerable. I need to shorten the strand between the sources of my security and me.
A major source of that security is my faith. I can’t speak for others, but without God’s voice in my ear, the future feels bleak and my past losses overwhelming. He has purpose for my life, and in order to meet that purpose, I need to stay close to Him. My primary connection strand is prayer—not so much a formal exercise as a constant conversation. My creativity, direction, and voice hinge on His creation, and the image of that caterpillar reminds me to keep the strand of prayer strong and attached close to Him.
From the day we are born, we need human connection. It’s the way I’m wired and a source of security for me. Unless I give and receive support from family and friends and share burdens, getting through this proverbial vale of tears feels impossible. Both the sharer and receiver are blessed by the connection experience. Friends have seen me through devastating days and celebrated with me through joy-filled days. My hope is that they feel the same. I must continue to nurture those connections.
As I get older, the significance of my connection to nature grows clearer. It resounds in my writing and becomes a source of understanding myself. When my daughter informed me of her long hours at work, I reminded her of the advice her grandfather gave me: “Don’t forget to smell the flowers.” Dad reminded me that the lessons in nature require me to slow down long enough to take notice, learn and enjoy. Unlike most Coloradoans, I am not particularly an outdoor person; however, I must again make the effort to keep my connection to and appreciation of nature strong.
I’m privileged to have an encouraging and accommodating husband, as well as children and grandchildren. Some years back, when the kiddos were preparing for college, I wrote the following poem. It speaks to the mother/daughter connection, considered the most complicated. I compared her growing process to the evolution of a caterpillar to cocoon and butterfly.
Daughter
A swiftly-evolving future butterfly,
you had no choice
but to shed your too-small skin.
It hurt, but new lived where
old gave way and, nearly grown,
you wove your soft blanket
into a hard, brown shell.
Clinging with one thin, silk strand,
you stubbornly attached
to the mother stem.
Inside, you changed,
melting down to a formless state
where all new things begin again,
unnoticed until the world
would see you fly.
Shaping silently in the cocoon,
you tossed and turned,
keeping time
with your own nature
until the day you came forth.
Bold wings took hold,
strong and colorful,
carried you over the winds of time,
until you landed
just outside my window.
–Laurel Jean Becker
Copyright 9/5/97
I now feel like the caterpillar needing to melt down, reform and redirect—not an easy process. But I know if I keep my vital connections strong, I will eventually find my wings again.
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