Mama gets a cocoon

My family gave me a cocoon for mother's day. The perfect gift for me. I immediately went deep inside. Just the tip of my head protruding from the top as I stared down into my new home. It was hard to extract me. But the gleeful calls to play and be close and enjoy each other coaxed me out. We all have cocoons now. We like to lay in them together on the floor. Our individual discreet zones of comfort. We share the relationality of the experience. We all go inside for different reasons. I am transforming. We all are I guess. But I can feel the blockages as I get closer. I can feel the resistance. I have this sense that I may never emerge from my cocoon complete. Come out into this world with my skin not quite in tact. Seep all over everything. Lack the ability to contain for effectiveness. Lack the foresight to understand the changes that I invoke. Lack the will to concentrate on the essence of my power. The faith in what I have brought myself to be. When a caterpillar enters a cocoon it becomes itself. That is, the cocoon is formed from its body. It sheds layers of its previous internality as the newly forming entity grows too large to remain contained. I'm not sure that I can meet the expectations of this cocoon. The layers shed are antithetical to my intent. The layers are inevitable. The only way to see is to completely immerse I suppose. Inside I go.