Metaphors of Transformation

It’s getting bad again, but I don’t know how long I’ve been feeling this way.  

It was outside my local liquor store, where I was standing under the flickering neon sign, color of faded cyan, staring at the rainwater pooling at my feet while I waited for my ride because I’d forgotten an umbrella, and true to my luck, the storm had come out of nowhere. Home was too far to walk in the cold and the wet, and far too close to drive. I had to pick one of them, and settled with making a mental note to apologize for troubling my driver with a three-quarter-mile ride. 

It was there where every sensation seized me, dragging me down to my reality, centering my mind on everything around me: everything from the wetness that stained the cement sidewalks, the stragglers ducking into their apartment buildings, looking eager to make their escape from the outdoors. The cheap plastic “thank you” bag stretched between the tension of my fingers and the weight of the wine toppled over within the plastic. 

I turned my gaze up to that neon sign, squinting to make a smaller target for the falling raindrops. They hit the bullseye anyway, and I twitched as my right eye suddenly flooded with water. I stared at the flickering sign anyway, that faded blue that must have been vibrant and bright back in the 90’s. Given the empty state of the street, I figured that may have been the last time the store saw some good action. “LIQ U R”. In my clouded vision, it looked like it was underwater. 

I blinked the rain out of my eyes, glancing down at my phone. Your driver will arrive in two minutes. I shivered against the rain-heavy wind, only partially comforted by the fact that soon, I’d be walking through my apartment door and hanging up my coat, and shortly after that, I'd be dry and warm with dinner on the stove. But the thought of being home didn’t make me feel as comforted as it should have, and I knew it wasn’t the most honest of thoughts to consider my studio apartment in the South Bronx “home.” Maybe it would have been bearable if I weren’t alone. I hadn’t expected the isolation to be the hardest part, but looking back, I knew that it should have made me wary. 

College graduation was supposed to open the doors to the rest of my life, but it scattered my friends to the four winds. I want to be happy for them: for the one that moved from the city to obtain his psychology license, the one who wanted to be with family instead, the one who just didn’t want a life of public transportation that hasn’t changed since the 1970’s and tiny apartments assembled with wood instead of concrete, so you can hear everything your neighbors are doing—every argument happening above your head, every dish thrown across the kitchen, every scratch against the hardwood floors made by the agitated dog living in a place that’s too small for its energetic body.  

Not unlike you. 

Not unlike me. 

Longing only to hit an open field and run, to keep running and to never stop. 

This city is big, but somehow, my claustrophobia has never felt so alive. And it seems that’s the only part of my mind that’s thriving, functioning better than ever and at full capacity. 

Someone once told me that they feel especially bad for those in their early to mid-twenties. A large part of me feels guilty for feeling bad for myself, too. Wasn’t this supposed to be my prime? And what was wrong with me if I wasn't the happiest I would ever be? Would this be the happiest I'd ever be? What did that say about what the rest of my life would look like? But regardless of every doubt I had now, one question ruled them all, squeezing them into sad submission: didn’t I ask for this? 

A small, red car pulled up to the curb. I smoothed down my hair, shaking the rain from my fingers, ducking my head as I opened the door and slipped inside. 

I could see where the faux leather coating had rubbed off the seat from repeated use, exposing the faded cloth underneath. I sat down, feeling the springs sink under my weight. Could have done without that. I wasn’t that heavy, but it didn’t make me feel good regardless. The car was old, just like the rest of the neighborhood. 

I muttered a halfhearted greeting, keeping my eyes on my lap, breathing heavily from the cold and setting down the plastic bag on the open space next to me. 

The driver asked my name. I confirmed it and heard him shift the gear, feeling the low rumble of the engine. Slowly, he pulled off the curb. My vision flickered upwards to the rear-view mirror. His gaze was set on the road, and I could only see his eyes reflected in the thin strip of glass, and the car was dim from the heavy clouds. I couldn’t see his whole face, but the eyes—they almost looked familiar. Almost. 

“Heading home?” He asked me suddenly. 

I startled in my seat, and turned to gaze out of my window, somehow feeling as though he could sense me watching him. I didn’t even know why I was watching him. “In a manner of speaking,” I scoffed before I could stop myself. 

Instantly, I clamped my eyes shut, exhaling on a soft curse. So, this is how it was going to go. I was going to have my mental breakdown in the back of my ride-share, and it was going to be so cliché I may as well have starring in a bad teen drama. I was too damn old for my own behavior. I shook my head, internally begging that he would ignore me, and that he’d let me ignore him, too. 

“Not feeling as if this is home, then. Got it.” 

I sighed, exasperated and irritated, not knowing if the irritation stemmed from him, or from myself. 

“How long have you been here?” He asked when I didn’t respond. 

I felt my brow twitch, watching the blur of rain-battered trashcans that lined the streets he sped past. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m from here?” 

He exhaled on a soft laugh, lifting his chin. Flashing my gaze back towards the mirror, I could see that he was smiling, not that I couldn’t hear it in his voice, too. He looked young. Kind. I could see dark, black hair that stretched all the way down to his jaw, grasping his face in small pieces as he moved. “I can tell you’re not from here.” 

“So, it’s obvious then,” I muttered, sensing the venom in my voice and wishing I had the energy to be kinder. 

“’S not a bad thing,” he said. His voice was light, like a bell, like comfort. I pinched my brow further.  "You at least like it at all?"

I made a noise--something between a scoff and a sob. "Honestly? I've never felt more like I'm surrounded by other people, but at the same time..." I swallowed back the words. I didn't know this man. I didn't need to tell him I was lonely. “You from here?” I countered. 

“Doesn’t matter where we’re from so much as where we’re going. But yeah. Born and raised a New Yorker.” 

“Hmm,” was my only response as I turned my gaze back out the window. I wasn't in the mood for proverbs. I was in the mood for a mason jar of wine and an early turn-in and silence. Funny how much I hated the isolation, but couldn’t help but cling to it, too. Funny how the things we cling to are something the same things destroying us. 

Funny. 

“It’s difficult, isn’t it? Living in a place you can’t bring yourself to call home?” 

I was glaring at him through the rear-view before I'd even realized I'd moved.  

“Please--I don’t mean any offense. I’ve been there myself. The thing about the journey is that it makes us feel alone, but everyone must take it, at one time or another.” 

I held my breath. My face was still tense, brows still drawn, mouth slightly agape. But it wasn’t venomous now, no longer drawn in anger. I stared at him with a steady confusion, a slow understanding blooming in the back of my mind. But there was nothing easy, nothing appealing about accepting that he understood anything about me. 

I opened my mouth to tell him that he didn’t know me, and should leave me alone. But the words fell on my tongue like dried ash, and I swallowed them instead. A voice filled my mind, and immediately, I recognized it as decidedly not my own: 

This is going to be a very short ride. So, you should stop asking questions. 

“What’s the journey?” I breathed. 

“Are you familiar with transpersonal psychology?” 

I shook my head. “No, not really.” 

“Also known as spiritual psychology. The theory of the journey is representative of human transformation, and the purpose is arriving at the destination,” he said. “The upmost symbol of spiritual change and enlightenment. You must understand that feeling lonely is a temporary setback. Not even a setback. Just a part of the path. And it is essential in reaching the destination. 

“Anthony the Great descended into the desert,” he continued “letting all the demons of the world ravage and assault his mind and his faith, and he emerged a master of his own subconscious.” 

I nodded, and said softly, “so, the city is my desert.” 

“The wasteland is often the site of the journey. The thing that changes us, when we emerge at the precipice of wilderness and...the other side.” 

I shook my head. “They say the only constant is change. But I feel so stuck. I feel like nothing is changing. And I feel like that’s the problem.” 

“Change doesn’t always present itself in the most obvious of ways. What you’re experiencing is a slow change. An adjustment that will take time. A revolution of spirit that is happening so gradually, that you don’t feel yourself growing within your own skin.” 

I blinked slowly, feeling my brow knit; a part of me wanted to press him to know how he was so sure about me, about my life, and I let the stronger part of me reject my own doubts, and dive deeper into the strange conversation. “I don’t feel like I’m on some pilgrimage,” I told him. “I don’t feel like Anthony the Great, trying to achieve something or fight my demons. I just want to know who I am. And I’m not a heaven type of person.” 

“Fine, then,” he said, giving me a gentle smile in the rear-view mirror, not looking dejected or even challenged in the slightest. He kept his kindly eyes on the road, only concerned with moving forward. “Have you heard the one about the butterfly?” 

I blinked again. “Enlighten me.” 

“You look far too young to be having such a midlife crisis. That tells me that you’re in the part that nobody talks about.” 

“The part that nobody talks about?” I echoed. 

“College is over?”  

I swallowed thickly. “Yes.” I was ashamed to find that my voice was nothing above a whisper. I hadn’t meant to sound so meek. Meek wasn’t generally in my nature. But it was like his impossible perception skills were squeezing the oxygen out of my lungs, more powerful than my whole body.  

“Too young to be a child, but not nearly old enough to be an adult. All you know is what people expect of you, and no idea how to get there. You’re no longer a caterpillar, but far from being a butterfly.” 

“And what does that make me?” 

He cracked a wider smile, looking into the rain outside the windshield like it was an old friend. “The cocoon is represented by doubt and fear.” 

“Well, doubt and fear pretty much rule my life,” I muttered. 

“Then you already know.” 

So, I was a cocoon, then. I closed my eyes and pictured it, pictured myself: having hanged my body and strung it upside down, battered by the elements while I closed your eyes and slept through the storm. 

“Doubt and fear do not serve you,” the driver said simply, turning down 134th street. This was around where I should be fishing for my keys. But I couldn’t move a muscle. “What serves you is the instinct to transform. Because every stitch of your soul is bursting at the seams. Hungry for transformation.” 

I chewed the inside of my cheek as I felt the all-too familiar sensation of low pricking at my eyes. I pictured the cocoon again. I pictured the hanging, pictured the tree like it was a noose. But then there was the aftermath, too. The bursting. The unfurling of wings, the stretching of them for the first time. 

“Then is this my birth or my death?” I breathed. 

“Both,” he replied, parking his car outside of my apartment, and hitting the large red “x” at the bottom of his GPS. “It’s the death of who you once were. And the birth of who you’re destined to be.” 

I exhaled shakily, unfastening my seatbelt with fingers that twitched and fumbled at the buckles, feeling strange. But feeling, finally, something akin to peace—an uncanny, eerie calm. Finally, my mind was quiet. I couldn’t remember the last time it felt free.  

My hand twitched towards the door. It fell back in my lap before my fingers even grazed the handle. I held it there gingerly, eyes flickering back towards the rear-view mirror where they met his. I couldn’t see any other part of him—just his eyes. 

I took a steadying breath, feeling strange. Strangely calm. Strangely serene. Not entirely awake. 

“Have you heard the other one about the butterfly?” 

He blinked slowly. His eyes were warm. Of course he’d heard of it. But why not tell him anyway? 

“It was never meant, literally, of course, but demonstrates that little, insignificant events can have astronomical outcomes over time. A butterfly flaps its wings over China, and causes a hurricane halfway across the world. A girl gets into a cab with a stranger...” 

I could have sworn his eyes gleamed as his reflection stared back at me, and gently, he replied: “I’ll be eager to find out if the theory proves true.” 

I smiled softly. “Me too.” 

Another moment of silence. The rain pattered on the roof of the car. It sounded like fingers drumming the top of a tin can. I thought about asking who he was. I quickly decided that’s not what really mattered. I nodded, opening the door and ducking out of the car. I stared at my apartment, but didn’t set for the gate. Instead, I turned around, leaning down to peer through the open window on the passenger side door. 

“Let’s say I’m a butterfly,” I told him, squinting my eyes as the rain continued to fall, droplets sliding down my cheeks, rolling over my lashes and pooling in my vision. “After the cocoon, does a butterfly even know if it’s ready to fly? If it even knows how?” 

“No more than you,” he replied. “But the strength comes in trying.”