Metanoia

      

        

                    Metanoia 

( is the profound transformative change of heart and mind and energy just like the butterfly changes) 

​Listen.

They told you, change was a coat you could just put on.

A new coat of paint, a superficial shift, a resolution at the turn of the year.

But they lied to you.

Real change? Real shift?

It demands a funeral.

​Metanoia.

It’s not a makeover. It’s a dismantling.

It is the midnight of the mind where the old constructs must shatter,

where who you were must lay down and breathe its absolute last,

because you cannot inherit the dawn while you are still clinging to the dark.

You have to die to change.

​Look at the butterfly.

We love the wings. We write poetry about the flight.

But we skip the violence of the sanctuary.

We forget that inside the ribcage of that chrysalis,

there is no magic wand.

There is only a quiet, absolute dissolution.

The caterpillar doesn't just sprout feathers of silk;

it dissolves.

It becomes soup. It becomes nothing and everything at once

 

Every boundary, every construct, every cellular memory of crawling in the dust

is completely liquified.

It has to completely surrender its shape

just to remember its potential.

​That is the biological gospel.

To become the sky, you must first survive the melting.

​And when Jon Batiste sat at that piano,

weaving a lullaby into the sterile cold of a hospital room,

He wasn't just writing a melody.

He was mapping the coordinates of this exact veil.

He was looking at his favorite person fighting for breath,

standing at the edge of the ultimate transition,

and he realized that when you are that close to the edge,

you cannot be normal anymore.

You cannot make yourself small to keep the room comfortable.

You cannot dim your frequency for any reason.

​So he sang to the chrysalis. He sang into the melting.

​“A butterfly all alone / But can you fly on your own? / Take your place in the world today / Butterfly flying home.”

​See, we think the chrysalis is an isolation ward.

We think the dark means we’ve been abandoned.

But that stillness? That’s where the sacred tone is struck.

You think you’re being buried, but the music is telling you:

“No, child. You are just being prepared.

​We constructed of bone and belief, of spirit and shadow”

we undergo this exact same metaphysical arithmetic.

The old skin; the fears, the trauma, the assumptions;

it’s all liquifying into a “color scheme from a dream, a tapestry so supreme.”

But you don’t get the tapestry without the tearing of the thread.

You don’t get to fly anywhere, until you survive, the no where.

Metanoia is the imperative. It is the holy requirement.

​And when the world looks at your transformation, they won’t understand it.

When you start standing with your head held high,

when you refuse to apologize for the space your spirit takes up,

they will look at your shift and call it madness.

They will think you’ve lost your mind.

​But you just smile, look them in the eye, and echo the lyric:

“You see I’m howling at the moon, day and night...

They say I’m as crazy as a loon, but I’m alright.

All dressed in white.”

​Yeah, tell them: I’m alright.

Because the white isn’t a shroud. It’s the wedding garment of a new dawn.

It’s the purity of a self that has survived the fire and knows exactly who they are.

It’s the sound of a soul that stopped crawling because it finally heard the call.

​Every construct you built to survive the winter? Let it burn.

Every definition that kept you small enough to fit into their rooms? Let it break.

It is painful. It is terrifying. It is a lonely, dark room.

But the dark of the chrysalis isn’t a tomb. It’s a womb.

​You are not a mistake.

You are a sacred song and a sacred tongue.

​“Stay awhile here with me / Up underneath the stars / When you go you’ll be free / ’Cuz you know who you are.”

​That is the final, unyielding light.

The caterpillar didn't just change its clothes; it changed its entire reality.

It died to the dust so it could inherit the sky.

It didn't just survive the dark, it let the dark show it its own majesty.

​So let them call you crazy.

Let the old constructs shatter into dust.

Stop fighting the dissolution.

The process is over. The dawn is up, and it requires a brand new pair of eyes to see it.

Step into the fire of your own transformation.

Die to the crawl. Die to change 

​Take your place in the world today.

Beautiful child of light & spirit...

Fly.