Ever Better

Today, as I was reflecting on what has become an extremely rough week, I was thinking about change. I think most of us are, to some extent, trying to change something about ourselves here or there, and trying to become better people. Ultimately, we have big dreams for ourselves; we want to become something better than what we are.

While I was sitting in my American Literary History class yesterday, I was kind of wishing that I could be a caterpillar. Not that I want to be a squishy, fuzzy, gross little bug, but because I crave the privacy of a cocoon (I suppose chrysalis is the more correct term, but I prefer cocoon). I doubt that any of us like to be in the middle of trying to change who we are under the harsh glare of other peoples' scrutiny and judgment. I mean it's hard, and people are going to point out your flaws as you're in the middle of trying to be a better person, and it hurts bad—believe me I know. So wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be delightfully easy, to be able to let go of everything you're doing right now, and just wrap up tight in a cocoon, and then, after a period of time, emerge a beautiful butterfly? Wouldn't it be great to be able to hole up in there, and then come out and say, "Yes! I'm there! I'm wonderful and beautiful and I'm better and I can fly! How cool is this?!"

But that's not the way the world works. Nope. Because we're not destined to be butterflies.

The way I see it, we're very different creatures. We're the kind of creatures who, in order to change, have to do so within the view of others. I say this not because we have to go about sharing the intimate details of our progress from one stage of (im)perfection to the next, but because often, our flaws are glaringly obvious to at least a small number of people. Even if we try to hide them away by being shy, and keeping to ourselves, we merely expose ourselves to further ridicule by being unable to conduct ourselves in public.

Granted, there are some flaws of character that only we ourselves can be aware of, and that we have the privilege to cloister and hone, or to take to the woodshed and beat soundly. And perhaps those are the hardest, because we are only then accountable to ourselves to fix them, and have no external stimulus to push us more fervently into action. These, however, I think are in the minority. (It's very possible that I'm wrong, but I feel that my thinking is correct.)

The thing is, our change is much more like that of a phoenix. We grow to a point where we can no longer remain as we are. We must change. Our selves have grown old, and it is time to put on a new. And so we begin to molt, and to try desperately to abandon our old selves, and it's terribly apparent.

And then we burst into flames. Bright, terrible, glorious flames.

I'm going to make the gross assumption that most of you have read Harry Potter, and that you recall Fawkes, the phoenix belonging to Albus Dumbledore. In the second book, The Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore looks upon the pile of Fawkes' ashes as Harry tries to explain that it wasn't his fault, and says, "About time too. He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."

I wonder if, perhaps, that's how God looks on us, though perhaps with a little more gentleness in His voice. He knows when it's time for us to let go of who we've been, though at one time, to become who we have been was a success. Does that make sense? Perhaps I can try to explain it better, just in case. What I mean to say is that we've made changes in the past, and there has been time when, after those changes have been made, that it's a wonderful thing to be that person. Then we grow, and mature, and truly make those changes a deep, and permanent part of ourselves. But then what once was enough is no longer enough, and the time to change is again upon us. We need to become ever better.

I can't decide which part is the worst. The molting, the ugly beginnings of abandoning the old; the burning, the violent destruction of a flaw, and of a piece of our own pride, and the accompanying pain; or the awkwardness of trying to emerge from a pile of ashes, a fledgling creature who hasn't quite got the hang of that change yet, and who is destined to fall short of fully embodying it for a while. I mean, it's really just an ugly process, and it is anything but comfortable. However, there are a few things worthwhile to be said of it, and those are these:

(1) We simply cannot refuse to change. We've seen the people who haven't changed since high school (which, granted, is varying lengths of time, depending on how old you are), and it's just sad to see someone who hasn't been able to progress. It's pathetic, and often a little gross. Let's just be honest.

(2) The way I see it, we're not your everyday, run of the mill phoenixes. I think we're something cooler than that. I think that with every Burning Day (think of day in the Creation "day" sort of way), we rise from the ashes even grander, more glorified. Like, with extra gold feathers or sparkles or something.

I think I had a few more things, but since I started this yesterday, I can't quite remember the specifics of what they exactly were. I suppose I'll just continue. Let's take a little look at why we're phoenixes, and not mere butterflies.

Firstly, while both processes allow an external change, I can't help but notice that there's still a caterpillar inside that butterfly. It might be that the caterpillar was just melted down (for lack of better/more accessible terminology) and rearranged to form the body of a butterfly ... it's the same stuff in there. A phoenix (granted, these things don't actually exist) burns down to nothing but ashes, and then rises out of them. (Since they're mythical creatures anyways, we're just going to assume that, since they're on fire, there's nothing left in the end but ashes. Then poof, a phoenix comes out of the middle of it, ok?) When we're changing, we may be able to change the way we appear to others, but unless we change the inside too, I don't think it counts for anything.

Now, who really wants to be a butterfly instead of a phoenix? You can argue all you want, but I will never believe that you'd rather be one of these, pretty though they might be, ...

... than a magnificent, mythical firebird. (And just in case you were wondering, all the phoenix pictures were tacky, so I didn't include one.)

Have you ever seen a butterfly flying? They're kind of pathetic. They wobble and tremble about in the air. And maybe they have a lot of strength considering their size ... but if the wind is greater than they are, what does it matter? Try not to think I'm being pessimistic here, I'm just making a point. Phoenixes are strong in the face of even the mightiest of winds. Why? Because they're cool, and huge, and powerful, and magic. Also, their tears are magic. Just saying.

Okay, so I realize I'm kind of going crazy here and that this post has gotten way out of hand. I had even more to say about this stuff, but I just don't have the time or energy to get it all sorted out. maybe someday in the future ... but I doubt it. Anyways, what I'm saying is: The easy way out may be the easy way out, but it's not always the best way out. And for myself, I want thebest because I want to be ever better. :)