not yet 🦋

& the messy beauty of letting go

Kari Gunter-Seymour, Because Autumn Always Clotheslines Me

It’s the last day of August and I keep coming back to these two words: not yet.

Tomorrow, it will be September. Technically still summer for another twenty-three days; spiritually not. Those twenty-three days are the no man's land between seasons, a letting go to let in. An exhale. 

This past weekend I went on a long drive through rural Vermont with new and old friends. We drove through farmland, sun rays spilled over the mountains and onto rolling hills, revealing infinite shades of green. We stopped at a pond for a swim between the passing showers. Up close, we noticed some of the trees had begun to change color, tufts of orange and yellow peeking through the green. 

Not yet, we collectively groaned.

On our way home, we stopped at a sunflower field at golden hour. Indulging my request, the guys got out of the car and into the field for a photo. The sky was alive; the clouds dramatic. My friends posed for the photo by assimilating into the rows of sunflowers—-their serious faces angled in the same direction as the blooms, an almost militaristic sight. In Arabic, sunflowers are called ‘eibaad al-shams—sun servants. We too are in service of the sun.

I moved to Vermont for the summer, mostly on a whim, to see what rhythms and patterns I would develop in a new container. I remembered things about myself, like how much I love being on a bike. I kick off from the pavement and any lingering worry quickly dissipates in the breeze. 

Burlington is in full bloom, but not in a manicured suburban way. The greenery here is overgrown—unruly and wild. I often have to shimmy past a bush that’s taken up half the sidewalk, or weave around a dense sprawl of milkweed. Mosquitos have ravaged me this summer. I’ve let myself become a little unruly and wild too. I let my hair dry naturally most days, my messy waves spill down my back and spiral into full curls after a summer drizzle.  

I went on a hike a few weeks ago and at the summit there were dozens of butterflies flitting about the goldenrods. A question popped into my mind while I watched their dance – Do butterflies remember being caterpillars? Do they have any awareness that they are transformed beings?

I haven’t Googled the answer. I’m not done indulging in the mystery of the question. Another instance of not yet.

I wrote in my journal that I feel I’m not the same person I was at the beginning of this year. That I’m not the same person I was two months ago before I moved to Vermont. I came here to write my book, to start my book, an idea that has been gestating for two years. After many false starts, I can now say with certainty that this book is finally coming out of me. It’s happening, and though there is still so much unknown, I love the shape it’s taking. (!!!!)

It is an incredible feeling to finally step into this project, both feet firmly planted in wildly new terrain. I had a wobbly, panicky moment a few weeks ago when it dawned on me that I’m writing a book. The emotional labor, the several layers of peeling, the grappling it takes to not only get to truth but to then convert it into words —- it’s intense! And I am scared. It’s also awesome, and I commit to shepherding its journey from the ether into reality.

When caterpillars become butterflies, they digest the entirety of their physical selves except for distinct sacs that contain ~*~the stuff~*~ that forms their butterfly bodies. Scientists have named those sacs imaginal discs. Nature conspires with caterpillars to become butterflies—-they are destined for it. But they have to participate in their metamorphosis. They have to surrender to death, they have to let go.

I feel like I’m emerging from a messy, painful phase of letting go. Letting go of the heaviness—- the stories, patterns, and voices that have kept me from fully crossing the threshold into my new self. At the beginning of the summer, I would timidly introduce myself, watering down my dreams with phrases like: I’d like to be a writer… I’m trying to write a book… I’m not sure if I have it in me….

Now, it’s just fact. I am a writer. I am writing a book. And I most certainly have it in me. (!)

In the aftermath of all this letting go, I’m practicing being soft with myself. I want to pause and enjoy this newfound, expansive self and the process of unfolding a work of art. I want to revel in the gratitude of being inside an answered prayer. I am allowing myself to exhale. 

This next phase of life, writing this book, will entail many more rounds of digesting myself and turning into caterpillar goo. It’s going to be messy and uncomfortable, and I am destined for it. 

Friends in Brooklyn lovingly reach out, asking me if I’ll be back in September. Not yet, I tell them, extending my stay in Vermont for another month. I want to see the leaves change color. 🧡