I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree just as the butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened, the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled. The wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath. In vain. It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings needed to be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.
And so it is with me … or could be. I cry every day for Jody, often several times a day. A part of me wants the crying to stop, the grieving to end. Thankfully just a small part. The wisdom eye knows that I will cry when I need to, for as long as I need to. And if my weeping for my loved one extends over months or even years, then that is the rhythm I must honour. People may talk about me needing to move on, but there is a far deeper mystery that calls me for as long as it does. I will listen.