by Kleitia Vaso

There comes a moment in which we grow into a phrase we have heard a million times. Mother Nature, after nature.

Because any transformation resembles the seemingly endless, grotesque, excruciating-looking splitting of the both nourishing and suffocating pupal shell. Stretching and pushing, forming and deforming to emerge as a butterfly, in the best of cases.

That the moon remains constant and is eternally whole but chooses what it reveals and conceals, at times overwhelming us with its light and at others making us question whether it exists at all. Alternately magnanimous and miserly, like a capricious and irrational queen, offering as much as she deems our right to have at that very moment.

The mother of the tidal waves which we may only fully comprehend when the lesson becomes ours to experience. That, at moments, the bounty of life mirrors our exuberance and generosity in seeing ourselves and others while sometimes, we and, in turn, our world resembles a firmly-closed cocoon, defending the self from the world’s threatening touch, wanting and offering nothing except our silence and withdrawal.

That, despite fairy tale endings, even the most beautiful swan suffers just like its lesser duckling cousins, furiously laboring underneath to maintain its deceivingly calm appearance. That its beauty does not spare it effort and suffering but, at most, only grants it a greater sense of distant empathy from the onlookers at a zoo or park or lake, in the best of cases.

That the sun giveth and taketh away, and so on and so forth.

by Kleitia Vaso