I watched her molt all morning, emerging, growing, brightening, spreading, until she was many times larger than the shell she would leave behind. Then she was gone. Maybe she was the one who landed on the slat bench next to me on the last day of vacation, reveling in her next chapter. I was envious.
There is a knot that needs untangling. I haven't been talking about it. Or praying. Or writing. Or thinking, really, but it's not going to untangle itself. It will have to be written smooth, because most of the problem solving in my life happens internally, spilling into written words. Such is the way of the introvert writer.
When a woman has everything to be thankful for, like a faithful God, a rock solid husband, healthy, cheerful kids, good friends, and a lovely home, she takes that nebulous angst and palms it like a ball of clay, making it as small as possible. Then she swallows it and lives with the pit in her stomach. Sue Monk Kidd calls it "an obscure longing for something I cannot name."
The Bible says that "while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened." 2 Cor 5:4 There is a groaning in me that cannot be ignored, a nameless burden. Is it a longing for heaven? Is it an invitation to a new chapter or bigger wings? I don't have an inkling of the root or the purpose, but I suspect it's a univeral experience, and that, like Lady Dragonfly, I am simply molting.
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