For a year, we've waited. We've tucked in, and like hungry caterpillars, munched our way through books, years worth of Netflix, the kitchen, the garden, the knitting basket . . . and, if we are wise, spun a kind of cocoon around us to hold our dreams of life after lockdown.
Inspired by Gandhi, women in India wait for wings to appear out of each cushion of cocoon, quivering and fragile, before they gather up the thread that is left behind and spin it into silk. What they make they call Peace Silk, because it harms no creature. It waits upon the miracle of emergence.
Emerging, let's admit, is a bit scary after a year apart. We wonder who we are now, changed. Only as we move again into this new world will we fully discover the gifts of our solitude and how this year has marked us.
I know that I want to gather these gifts up, these lessons of a veiled, interior year, and make of them something strong and beautiful. I want something that honors the Great Chrysalis of our time: our patience, our solitude; the stillness, the pause; so that I can wrap it around me in peace and remembrance. I want my wings, like that of the moth, to be marked and spotted by this time, shaped by this solitude; yet leading me into the miracle of emergence. .. and rebirth.
All the Best,