Metamorphosis takes aeons, generations and sometimes within the proper cyclical season.

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All around me I feel the invisible walls. Maybe a cell membrane that holds me in. It is a cocoon. The darkness melts my body and whispers stories of weeping, hate and betrayal.  As the full moon ascends on the horizon I feel the depth and heat of her breath as she addresses me. She is dark and hides the light. This is the process of metamorphosis.  Living in the patriarchal world this process is out-right ignored.  Yet, women throughout history know it well, for those of  us who pass through it. I am not talking about the happy, good, rise-above women who act as if in a dysfunctional relationship to men. I am talking about the women who hold owls, serpents and insects.  The mermaids and sirens that men can not violate or listen to.  Women bear up children, and mysteries, that are not meant for the souls of men. Women hold within them those freaky looking, metamorphosis looking, creatures in their wombs. Tadpoles, tails and big heads swim in the hot environment.

Asleep she was drawn to the being-0f-light outside the open window; upon the wall of the old garage converted into a boy’s room.

“Come with me there has been an airplane crash.”

She flew and followed the being-of-light over the valley. They both whipped through the air. They were swimming through the air. Her belly felt as if riding on a swing.

“That does not look like an airplane crash,” she said.

The fire and flames turned into a spacecraft. There was a large door. It opened and there before her and the-being-of-light was a small little grey-being with elaborate clothing.  Not a word was spoken but a beam of light, as a razor beam, focused from the little grey-being to her.

“What is this?  All these images are pouring into my brain. Symbols, numbers on and on they go… I cannot handle this…I think I will implode.”

She then noticed the beam of light stop. It was over.

The being-of- light flew her back to where she was sleeping.

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