For an update on this blog post, please read The Essential Chrysalis, where I explain the difference between a cocoon and a chrysalis.
My garden at the moment is inundated with caterpillars beginning the transformation process, the furry ones that remind me of tortoiseshell cats (I sometimes call them tortie-pillars). We probably have more this year than any other year.
They’ve made their way through most of my gerberas, getting onto the calendulas, and even eating the peppermint and thyme. In the last month they’ve grown in size and number, eating everything except the weeds I’ve left for them to eat so they leave my plants alone. They’ve even had a go at the cat mint which is looking a little stripped of leaves.
I see these caterpillars, and I notice the butterflies in the spring and summer, but I never see the cocoon where the transformation occurs.
When there’s any sort of transformation, people tend to use the analogy of the caterpillar turning into the butterfly. It’s probably one of the most over-used but underappreciated metaphors in the self-help and personal development sphere.
I’ve noticed something interesting that happens when anyone uses this metaphor to illustrate a point; the focus is usually on getting to the butterfly part of the process, the end result. The humble caterpillar doesn’t get much airtime. It’s almost as if the caterpillar phase is somehow undesirable and we should all strive to be butterflies (and I don’t think the term “social butterfly” is an accident either).
The most missed or glossed over part of the transformation metaphor is that of the cocoon. It’s odd because this is literally where the transformation happens. In that cocoon.
It’s like when I see the caterpillars munching away in my garden and the butterflies floating on the spring and summer breezes, but I never see the cocoons.
One of the most relatable characters in literature for me is the very hungry caterpillar – eats a lot, then feels like crap, then hides away in a cocoon (to then emerge as a beautiful butterfly).
I’ve thought about the caterpillar-butterfly transformation metaphor for all major changes in my life, and think I must’ve gone through this process a number of times. Before a change, I tend to eat a lot. Maybe I know subconsciously that change is coming and I’ll need to be stocked up on reserves.
I then feel the need to hide away, to disappear for a while and be solitary.
Sometimes I envy caterpillars. They don’t have any other caterpillars or butterflies knocking on their cocoon going, ‘Eh mate, are you alright? We haven’t seen you for a while and we’re concerned about you isolating. We’re all worried.’
There are some things I like about culture, and there are other things I don’t. And one of the things I don’t like is the pathologising of needing alone time or space or isolating at home for a while. Having to say to well-meaning people that I’m not depressed or having mental issues (but I will if I’m not left alone) and no thank you I don’t need to see a professional, is disruptive to the cocooning process. I mean sometimes this sort of hermiting behaviour is indicative of a mental concern, but to assume that it is in all cases seems to me like a myth perpetuated by extroverts.
Back to the cocoon. This is where the transformation actually happens. The change. In the dark of a safe space and comfort zone. It’s a solitary transformation which if disrupted leads to consequences for the development of the butterfly.
Sometimes we need to be alone and solitary, to rest in the safe space of our comfort zones to transform and change, emerging when we’re ready.
Well-meaning people may try to coax you out of your cocoon before you’re ready. But I’d suggest you honour your own wisdom and know yourself well enough to realise what you need.
Caterpillars, when left undisturbed and allowed to go through the solitary process of transformation, emerge when they’re ready. They enter the cocoon when it’s time, and they emerge from the cocoon when it’s time. They know.
At the moment, I’m going through a period of transition. I’m in the cocoon phase and trying to honour that as best I can, taking solitary time to allow the transformation and change to happen. Honouring the in-between time of no longer being the caterpillar, but not yet being the butterfly.
I’m trusting my wisdom and acting accordingly.
If the world is a garden and we humans are like caterpillars munching away (on resources), I would think that with the arrival of Covid, maybe that was an invitation to cocoon up and transform, to then emerge later as butterflies. Although I’ve never seen caterpillars so resistant to the cocoon process.
I feel as though in our culture, as I said before but it’s worth repeating, the cocoon is the most crucial yet lost element of the transformation process. There’s so much rushing to get to the next thing or the next level (whatever that means), and a lack of appreciation for the transition phases.
It’s like in the seasons, at least as I experience them in Australia, where there are four distinct seasons; summer, autumn, winter, and spring. They’re wonderful to experience, but what’s even more wonderful to me is the between phases, where summer hasn’t quite finished but autumn is just beginning. Or where the winter chill still prickles in the air but spring has announced its arrival with fragrant blooms and warm sunshine that melts through the chill.
I’d like to live a life where I honour the transition phases in my life and in the seasons just as much as I enjoy the seasons of nature and the seasons of my life.
I’d like to honour the cocoon phase in the process of transformation and change. That’s where the magic happens.
So I’ll keep observing the caterpillars, try not to disrupt them too much, and then let them cocoon up wherever they may to transform.
What have your experiences been in relation to a season of life change or a transformation/transition?
Do you feel the need to hermit up in the safety of a cocoon for a while or is it just me?
Let me know in the comments or send me an email at [email protected].
Love,
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