Soup

When a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, it tells a story of profound transformation. I particularly like the metaphor to describe BIG transformation because the process requires the caterpillar to completely give up its original form. In the chrysalis, the caterpillar disintegrates into a metamorphic soup before reforming itself into a butterfly.

I am now living in this soup. Everything of my former structure is disintegrating and becoming unrecognizable to me. Yes, I entered this chrysalis willingly, knowing the change would be big. But now that I’m here, swimming around in the mush, I have found that surrendering to the process has been, well, challenging.

Here’s a small sampling of parts of my life that are disintegrating before my eyes:

1. My space. It’s messy—think giant three-year-old on the loose. It’s LOUD—with stereos, i-pods, televisions, and electric guitars blasting from every room. And it’s busy. For 12 years I lived alone in my peaceful home sanctuary. Now it bustles with the daily comings and goings of caregivers and service providers.
2. My time. It’s consumed—think giant three-year-old that can’t entertain himself, doesn’t take a nap and can’t be put in a crib. My presence is required in every moment—to participate, moderate and play. (Note to my workaholic self—playing is good for you!)
3. My relationships with friends and family. I know I have been a bit AWOL lately and I truly regret this. But please don’t take it personally. Eventually, I’ll get out of the soup and be more available. Don’t give up on me!
4. My sense of self. Who is this person I am becoming? I don’t know her. The person I was, the work I did, the way I walked through life—it’s all melting away.

I am tempted to say, “My life is not my own.” But that is not true. This is my life. I chose it. I chose it because I love Gary. Also, I chose it because I have long believed that the human story is at its best is when it’s about caring for one another. I am now living that story—hoping I can figure out how to make it work.

Last night I dreamed that I lost Gary. We were both on a bus and got off at different stops. In my dream I knew the mixup was my fault because I wasn’t paying attention. Frantically I searched for him, but to no avail. I woke up anxious, and newly aware of just how scared I am. I’m scared that I won’t be up to the complicated, exhausting and difficult task of making sure Gary is safe.

The hardest part for me now is Gary’s agitation. This shows up as yelling, pacing, shoving and throwing things. Often he rages, repeating the words, “I can’t get out of here!” I’m never quite sure what he’s referring to. Out of where? The room? The house? The car? Or, is this an anguished cry of frustration about being trapped in a body that has betrayed him, stripping him of everything he knew about himself—his music, his skiing, his pottery, his capacity for deep, analytical thought? Gary is in a soup, too—his old form dissolving.

Together we’ll muddle through the soup and discover what our respective metamorphoses bring. Gary recently painted an image in his art class that gives me hope. It’s vivid, wild, uninhibited and radiant. Hints of a beautiful butterfly to come!

Here’s Gary’s cover of Bob Marly’s No Woman, No Cry. Sometimes I feel comforted by imagining that he is singing it to me—”Everything’s gonna be alright. Everything’s gonna be alright.” This was recorded at Holden Village years ago. Gary said he is accompanied by “the woman who was my next door neighbor.” He doesn’t remember her name. Does anyone know her? Or anyone else is on this recording?