Becoming

I am becoming again. For many years, I just was, but something has awakened that metamorphosis again. I was hibernating in the midst of Life, waiting out the days of an endless winter. This was a fate of my own making. No oppressor, no corporate machine treading on my independence, just my own apathy and discontent slowly molding into a dull rubbery glaze. That was then.

Growth is the definition and essence of life. Like blades of grass pushing through cracks in cement, life has a way of asserting itself. I don't know what provokes it, why it abruptly rises from the crowd of time and demands recognition. I suspect there is purpose in it. For these moments of enlightenment seem far too measured to be left to chance. The cup from which we drink, and the substance therein, seem a divine treasure meant for us alone. Yet, I am again so new in understanding. I am just now becoming.

For what it's worth, I am comforted by the belief that my slumber was not too delayed. That I did not sleep through more of the tender passing of seasons than I was meant to. I am the hidden seed. Though I have laid dormant in a field of dry soil, I still am. Light and provision has brought forth my time of harvest, and I am again becoming.

Behold