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Chelsea – Reemergence 

I want to make something achingly good. Not well received, not critically acclaimed, but full of goodness. Sometimes, I feel like I’m closer to that creation, whatever it will be, and sometimes I feel very far from it. 

I wonder if creating something so full of goodness requires too much depth. Which I think is just another way to say I wonder if the process of creating requires too many moments of reemergence for me to handle. I think this ebb and flow is necessary, though. 

There are lots of ways to depict this experience of reemergence. 

Me, a child, climbing up the ladder to the top of a slide. I pause, giddy, at the top. Then, the rush. I run back around, I climb the ladder, and I pause at the top once again. That pause was a reemergence, I think. 

I went into the ocean once. The waves were deceivingly big. I swam out past where my feet could touch. I wanted to ride a wave in, but I got caught up. I was tossed around under the water, not knowing when I would get air again. My body finally raked against the shallow where the water met the land and I knelt with my hands sinking into the salt sand, coughing. I looked back at the ocean, and I wanted to not be afraid. That wanting was reemergence, I think. 

I fell in love with someone and the best part of the whole thing was this one time we kissed. We had many kisses and they were okay. But this one time there was a kiss that was so excellent my whole body felt blood orange and he was present and he was there with me and no one was leading or wanting or scared and it was a feeling of now and now and now and nothing before and nothing after, just us, here and lit up. But I had to stop loving him in the way I wanted to, for him and for me. That stopping was reemergence, I think.  

The act of creating takes a lot of living in between, and I wonder if the creating has become itself a form of reemergence. In moments like this, when I find myself able to write, or more likely force myself to write, it is a return to a kind of headspace that feels closer to the core of me. Focused and aligned. But most of the time I don’t want to be creating. I don’t want to be before the thing – looking down at the slide, excited. Nor do I want to be after the thing – looking back at the ocean, desperately wanting to be brave but failing. I don’t want to be writing because it demands I hold the whole thing and feel it again but anew. I don’t want to be outside of the moment.

I want to be falling but held. I want to be submerged and nearly dying. I want to be with a person, really be with them. But then the living starts to feel far from that thing I want to create, and so I return here to write a few words so I can reemerge, so I can keep living, so I can reemerge, so I can keep living, so I can reemerge. It feels like digging down in the same spot then trying to run a million miles away. 

Is there someone who can tell me if this is what creating something good feels like? 

…

Mica – Reemerging
I googled “how long does it take for a butterfly to come out of its cocoon?”

This is what google said: 

Most butterflies and moths stay inside of their chrysalis or cocoon for between five to 21 days. If they’re in really harsh places like deserts, some will stay in there for up to three years waiting for rain or good conditions. The environment needs to be ideal for them to come out, feed on plants and lay eggs.

This resonated with me deeply. I struggle with emergence or reemerging as it is and envy butterflies’ capacity to wait for ideal conditions. But then again I am a human and waiting for ideal conditions to reemerge is not an option. Also, more often than not I have highly conflicting emotions when in the midst of reemerging. One side of me is extroverted and can’t wait to go out into the world in a rush and the other side of me desperately wants to stay cocooned at home all cozy and safe like. These sides of me have been having quite the duel in the months of January and February. 

January brought with it a frenzied feeling of reemergence. My extroverted side thrived, engaging with the outside world and being fueled by the positive response my presence seemed to have on those around me. It was exhausting and exhilarating. I felt like I had reemerged into the world with the confidence, energy and gusto for life I felt like I had been missing for so many years. 

February came along and the exhaustion of reemergence started to kick in and I started to doubt myself and the world again. I wanted to creep back into my cocoon. And I did. Going out less, getting frustrated with the world and myself. Doubting reemergence and reemerging. 

I googled “do butterflies need to struggle to get out of a cocoon?”

This is what google said:

In order to escape her cocoon, she must struggle to free her body with its brand new wings from its safe place of sleep. The struggle is at times so intense that the butterfly may seem near death, but it is critical at this point that no one comes to rescue her. She needs to do it by herself.

Well god damn if that doesn’t hit the nail on the goddamn head. The whole crux of reemergence innit? Reemerging/reemergence is uncomfortable and although it connotes a beautiful transformation at the end the process to get there is not an easy one. But reemerging I am and with a whole new set of 30 something year old wings.