Emerging from the Cocoon
Lynette Adams
The first weekend in my new apartment, I broke from unpacking to sit on the deck and enjoy my small piece of the outdoors in the middle of downtown St. John’s. I discovered that a group of caterpillars had moved in too. I watched the fuzzy little guys scout out spots to settle down for the next few weeks. I’ve been monitoring the cocoons since then; I want to be there when a butterfly emerges.
In the past year, my mother received a lot of butterflies as gifts. Not live ones, of course, but rather items in butterfly form: pins, pendants, hanging ornaments, wall hangings, a book of poetry with a butterfly on the cover. I guess it’s the trendy motif these days, but I think Mom liked being associated with something so hopeful.
She was never one for collectibles like cows or frogs or cats, although her twelve children might have been considered a fine collection.In truth, we were guilty of assigning collections to her, simply because we needed a touchstone for gift giving. First, it was salt-and-pepper shakers, followed by collector spoons, then quilting paraphernalia. When the butterflies started, it was just another collection that was bestowed upon her, I imagine, more for our benefit than for hers. About a year ago, my employer decided to close shop just as
my apartment lease was up for renewal. I had been longing for
a
change, so I gave notice to move, sold my furniture, put the
more
meaningful items in storage, found a temporary living
arrangement, and waited for the new thing to come along. I was imagining a move to an exotic new location, or at least to Toronto. I even took a vacation in search of something new. I knew I was on the edge of a new thing – I just had to find it. |
 Photo Credit: Rebecca Shorten |
I put my new thing on hold…. |
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On my new deck, the first caterpillars have nestled in between the horizontal deck rail and the vertical palings. Now there’s a new bunch of caterpillars moving in. These are fuzzier and their markings, while similar in shape, are brighter. Instead of finding their own palings, they are building onto the places where the earlier caterpillars have already settled. I feel indignant at these Johnny-come-latelies. Like most younger generations, they’re flashy, slow to take responsibility, relying on the work of those who went before. I want to scold them, but instead I check my sanity and go back to unpacking.
In conversations with my mother, I have often been guilty of waving my hand to her in the director’s signal to move it along, rolling my eyes as she searched for a name or a phrase. It’s natural to ignore the time that she made for me back when I wasn’t watching a clock. As an adult, I have carried around a standard amount of anger for the times she kept me from getting a “swelled head,” for making me a nervous driver, and for giving me competing urges to diet and to eat cake. I have also been aware of the fact that my mother did whatever a mother is supposed to do to earn the standard amount of respect. She told me about the nights I was colicky and the times I was afraid to sleep in my own bed. I remember the special Christmas surprises and the times she got me out of financial scrapes. It’s her character, her work, her sacrifices that allowed me to live the life I now enjoy. You could say I’ve built my life on the edges of what she did before me.
I had been struggling for years to break free from the protective hold my mother had on me. When her death became imminent, I didn’t feel quite ready to be a grownup. Meanwhile, my mother’s own body was degenerating into an inactive vessel, a mere cocoon for her spirit.
There’s an interesting little fact I’ve learned this past year, from two different sources. If you were to cut open a cocoon before the butterfly emerges, you would find a fully formed butterfly that couldn’t survive. Apparently, it needs the struggle against the cocoon walls to build up enough wing strength to fly. I told my mother this story one day when we were together in her hospital room. I thought she might appreciate the image, probably not for the same reason I did.
Five months after her diagnosis, and one week after saying “I’m ready to go now,” my mother broke free from her old body. The sympathy card we received from the hospital staff had a butterfly on it.
| Now that she’s gone, I no longer have that drive to find the new thing. I guess it found me, didn’t it? What I want now is a home for my new, grownup heart. That’s why I took this new apartment, with the deck and the caterpillars. I still feel sad and a little bit lost, but I also feel strong. My colours are the same, but now I have wings. |
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