A butterfly emerges from its cocoon, losing its safe space, but is now free to be a new version of itself. Butterflies remember their past experiences as a caterpillar although they went through major transformation (McKenna, 2008). Loss is felt because of memory, because of new realizations and perspectives, and new appreciation. Loss is inextricably linked to love and longing. In loss, we begin the unfolding of new memories.
When leaves drop as cold approaches, space is left for new growth as the warmth comes again, because life is an ever-changing chain of renewal. But we cannot have renewal, or just newness without death, without loss. Through that change comes resilient growth. For every dying rose bloom, a new bud begins to grow. Life is always about potential.
A loss of innocence, as children grow up, seems sad, although inevitable. Sometimes, as happened to me at seventeen, innocence is torn away violently, and in this vulnerability an identity of trauma, and shame may replace that innocence. At seventeen, I had only recently begun to come into my own, getting to know myself. This can be growth at its most painful. This happens daily around the world to children experiencing poverty and war. At times this may result in a protective retreat, as happened to me, back into a cocoon of sorts, but this is false protection, leading to more trauma, a prisoner of fear and the harshness of someone else. But in this isolation more growth can occur, and eventually I, and many others, break free.
Eventually the loss of innocence can lead to wisdom, a re-finding and reaffirmation of principles and convictions that were there the whole time. It can also be a time of new realizations. The first step is acceptance coming out of deep understanding. For me, and many others, this is hard won experience. Shame is a self-scolding, based on perceived scolding of others. But eventually there is the discovery that you never really lost your true self.
Loss can be hard teacher, because we think that holding on is security. A toddler walks but soon looks back for reassurance. Wanting security is hard wired into us, but fortunately so is learning. Infants learn at a blistering pace. But at some point, we attach ourselves too firmly to ideas, to others, to our past, to our future. We want to superglue our identity to our place in the world. But then we cannot adapt, grow, or change. This leads to fear, rigidity, and a tendency to prefer being right instead of being curious. We may even become attached to fear, to anxiety, to resentments, to our ambitions, and our ideas about the past and future. We become attached to our losses. This can lead to a problematic vulnerability to fixed ideas, unexamined faith, insularity and sometimes either using manipulation or being a victim of manipulation. Critical thinking, openness, and curiosity requires a certain amount of courage or at least not needing to be validated by others. It is not just about individual loss, but has implications in public policy and politics after a period of intense transformation and crisis.
The over-reliance on security is fear-based. for example, “I am afraid of what might happen after death, if I believe, then I can know what will happen.” Notice that different faiths and cultures have stories about the afterlife that reflect human ideas of happiness, so the narrative is familiar and reassuring. We want to be embraced by a parental, protective, wise figure. We also like narratives that lead to a reward, perhaps in a heroic striving way. Its as if life is a mission. But good faith should be love based not fear based. Growth and ability to change is a path to freedom, an obsession with security (i.e., law and order) leads to loss of freedom. Ideally life is a balance between change and order. As nature shows, with its systems, nature has its own “law and order” which is what makes it possible for everything to work. There is a pattern to everything, there is cause and effect. Nature’s law and order has built in capacity for flexibility and adaptability, connection, and diversity, and most of a purpose. (i.e., gravity).
Regret is often woven into the fabric of loss. If regret shows up (I should have done this, I should have done that) even if you really did not know or understand, do not let regret become hardened into despair, but let it be its own teacher. Life is always a matter of partial knowledge, so people do their best with what they know. Sometimes if you have regret, then you learned something. Perhaps what happened came out of a weakness or flaw, even your own. Ignorance is a variation on ignore. Learn what you can, apply as you can, and let go. Often regret might be a better thing than not trying at all.
Change can feel painful if it represents more work, more effort, fear of failure, even fear of success. Change often requires moving on, so loss is linked with change. Perhaps change comes after a long ordeal, or after a sudden moment of crisis. It may feel like shedding, as a snake sheds its skin. It may be forced on you, a struggle, the way out not yet seen. Sometimes all you may have is faith, or loss is transformed into gratitude.
Death allows room for new life, and new life is new possibilities. This includes the death of the person you were before. In fact, when I was widowed after a long marriage in 2018 a new version of me did eventually emerge. My husband went into the ICU in 2017 followed by lengthy hospitalization, then months later a homecoming until his death on his 63rd birthday in August of 2018. He was too sick to have a full understanding of what was happening, creating a feeling of isolation. I grieved from the time he was first sick, our old life was gone, although my grief was quiet, as I soldiered on during his illness, and then in the aftermath of his death. For me, an internal change did not happen until the pandemic hit in Spring 2020. But one night, alone, in the scary time of early pandemic days, a character on a TV show was talking about needing to be in control. That night I had a full-on existential crisis in the shower, realizing that as a competent person like to manage things well. Of course, the pandemic made everything feel more intensely fraught, not seeing family, friends, or my clients. That night, everything came out, a howling of the moon moment.
This was my moment of being reminded again how little control we have and then accepting this. It was also an expression of love. And then I decided to try something new. The line between foolish and brave can be thin. But I needed that good faith. I went online and after several adventures found someone. This new relationship helped me to redevelop parts of me that had receded and gave me a sense of renewal and hope.
Life does seem to have a circular aspect to it, as the seasons show, and the never-ending chain of birth, death, birth. I have a vivid memory of being eight years old, laying in a small plastic tub of water in our small Southern California patio, gazing up at the blue sky that seemed to go on forever, feeling the warm Southern California sun on my skin, the smell of my mother’s lovely honeysuckle climbing the fence. I felt things deeply, my innocence giving this moment a quiet purity. Just a feeling of presence. I still have that knowing with me, although its not always apparent. I am still that little girl. Later trauma did not make me bitter and rigid but it certainly gave me confusion, and eventual clarity.
What is lost is still carried with you, in memory, and is part of the present. With the sunshine, come the shadows. Let the rose bud bloom with glorious abandon. To Robert Herrick’s plea to “gather the rose buds while you may” I would add gather at any time of life, not just in youth. Throw the buds and fading roses into the air, fully breath in the present moment, as it will quickly recede. Letting go allows the memory to settle. As the tide retreats, a new wave comes in. Cherish the present, live fully in it, and learn your lessons of loss as the butterfly remembers, as do I, as do you.
References
McKenna, P. (March 5, 2008) Butterflies remember caterpillar experiences. Newscientist.com
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