BETWEEN THE GROUND AND FLIGHT

There is a place

that does not announce itself.

No sign.

No threshold.

No clear beginning or end.

Only a quiet knowing—

something is changing.

It feels like stillness,

but not the kind that rests.

A held breath.

A soft suspension.

As if life itself

is waiting

for something unnamed

to move.

Is this the cocoon—

where everything dissolves

in sacred surrender?

Where form is forgotten,

and what once was

is gently undone

to make space

for what cannot yet be seen?

Or is this the moment

after—

when the wings already exist,

fragile and folded,

carrying a truth

too new

to fully trust?

Because the butterfly

does not emerge in certainty.

It emerges

in vulnerability.

Soft.

Unsteady.

Unproven.

Standing at the edge

of open air

with everything it needs—

and still,

a pause.

There is a silence here

that can be mistaken

for doubt.

But it is not doubt.

It is awareness

meeting possibility.

It is the soul

recognizing

that nothing it once held

can go with it

into what comes next.

The caterpillar

does not question

its undoing.

The butterfly

does not announce

its first flight.

Both move

when it becomes

impossible not to.

And so the question softens…

Not:

What am I?

But:

What is true now?

Because becoming

does not rush.

And flight

is not learned

through force.

It arrives—

quietly,

naturally—

when stillness

no longer fits

the shape

of who you are.

And in that moment,

without declaration,

without certainty—

wings open.

And air

becomes

home.