Change reveals the worst of us, brings out the best in us.
We shudder as the winds blow our notions across wilting fields of familiarity. We chase our comfort zones like petulant, stubborn children who care little for what wiser souls think are best. We swing our nets wildly, aiming to capture the butterflies we think that we are owed.
All we think of winter is the cold, is of death. Flowers that drop petal by petal onto the hardened clay. Leaves vibrant and colorful brown and crunch beneath our feet. Do we know that this is what needs to happen, that this is the will of forces greater than us, supernatural or otherwise?
Sure. We know it. Do we accept it?
Inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar's body digests itself from the inside out. Once its body is thoroughly broken down, it rebuilds itself into the graceful creature petulant children seek to own.
Are we willing to consume ourselves from the inside out, to break down all that we are into the barebones, into exposed skeletons of the spirit and the psyche?
Butterflies don't feel pain during their metamorphosis.
The same cannot be said for us.