by Juliette Gay Jones 

There is a cycle in nature when the tide turns around and begins to move back toward the sea. In the ebb and flow of consciousness, there is likewise a season when the tide begins to flow homeward, and those on the path and awake to the moment witness a momentous inner shift which is called by no spoken name, but is profoundly known. 

She recognized an inner changing—it was well upon her now. Looking back, she realized that it had been coming on, having not felt quite like herself for a long time. A central core instinct whispered that some sort of preparation needed to take place. What preparation and preparation for what? This and other questions rose to the surface as surely as air bubbles rise to the surface of a quiet pool. 

This ambiguous drive to prepare for something unknown was disconcerting and made her feel uneasy. It was both strong and subtle like a vine of a leafy plant creeping out of the moist shadows toward the brightness of the sunlight—it was the alchemy of transformation. 

She felt that she needed a quiet place, a sheltered spot of some kind away from the fray of noise and disruption, but how would she be guided? It dawned on her that she was standing almost at the center of a garden and, looking around, suddenly grasped that a perfect place had magically appeared right in front of her.  

A magnificent ficus tree, planted long ago, was rooted firmly in the earth and reached upward toward the blue sky. She had a sense the tree was actually calling her to come forth. Momentarily, she paused to notice light streaming down through the broad canopy of branches and leaves which formed patterns of shade and brightness on the ground. 

All was silent. She heard a beautiful sound from somewhere far away which evolved into a song with a familiar melody. Si-lent day, Holy-day. All is calm, life guides the way. Then the atmosphere became silent quiet again, except for the occasional rustle of leaves or the cry of a bird. This is it! This is the place where it will happen! I will make the change here.  

In the mystery of living and dying, there is a secret which is known only to highly observant initiates. It is a truth that colors the entire character of life itself. The secret is this: Nothing changes without causing a window of opportunity for some measure of enlightenment to unfold. This understanding is an ingredient for the kind of real magic that can turn lead into gold. 

As she began the arduous task of climbing the tree, she experienced a swooning weakness and sank deeply into her own being toward a place of darkness. Loosening the anterior half of her body, she swung wildly into the air, only to thump back into the bark on the trunk of the tree. This brought her back into her senses, and she felt around for a secure foothold until she stabilized herself. Presently, she knew that she could now face the climb. 

Step by step, inch by inch, she did face it, and by the time the sun’s rays emerged from the zenith of the sky, she was traveling the high branches. The movement of a slight breeze underneath gave rise to a rapidly growing sense of exhilaration.  

She was one with the meditation of the climb, but as the sun passed behind a cloud, the exhilaration began to fade into delirium. What on God’s green earth possessed me to travel so far away from the ground. She wept her little tears. This is a place of no return, and I still don’t know what’s happening to me. Still…I have no idea…still…still…still... Yes, that’s it! That’s the answer—Be still and know! 

In the clear light of this awakening, there appeared from within her body a fine silken thread of a lifeline, almost invisible to the naked eye. With unfaltering expertise, she began to spin the crystalline sepulcher that would house the next bardo. What would happen in the isolation of that delicate crypt is beyond words and one of super-nature’s mysteries. Every creature must ascend to the temple of the soul by means of his or her own journey. The path from the dimension of creatureliness to that of inner space is a solitary privilege which cannot be stolen by storytellers or revealed too prematurely. 

In the cycle where outward dormancy for a time rules, and which we describe from the outside as “unresponsive,” who can say what demons, angels or visions that flesh is heir to? Most approach the shore of that kingdom as witnesses or guardians, and are filled with their own dreams and visions to interpret clearly.  

Days pass followed by long nights. The moon waxes and wanes, and the night ushers in the comforting hymns of tree frogs and the cricket people. Everything is still, but everything is changing. The waiting is relentless, yet timeless. All is swallowed into one simultaneous moment, and in that moment, a new paradox arises which is sad, but joyful. Death abides in birth, and birth abides in death, and our little frames are shaken by the greatness of life as we too struggle in the wake of change to be born into our own new worlds. 

In her moment of rebirth, if we could have heard with the ears of a fox or an owl, then we would have heard an infinitesimal vibration—a tiny delicate sound of becoming. If we could have seen with the eyes of an eagle, then we would have noticed a vast space appear above the horizon. The earth would seem smaller, and arising into the light would emerge a splendid, luminescent winged creature.  

The soul resurrects in a new butterfly form. Shining corridors of space and light beckon gently onward. The butterfly is a character in nature’s sacred book that shows us how a creature must die to become a new creature.