Estremera: The caterpillar doesn’t know

Saturday, January 28, 2012

THE title is not original, it’s the title of a book that I still have to read. The book cover says it’s written by Kenneth R. Hey and Peter D. Moore, both authors I haven’t heard nor read about. It’s here, on top of my office table, waiting for me to be done with all the other books I need to read for some paper I am working on. Sorry, no pleasure reading at the moment.

But the title already says a lot. For indeed, the caterpillar does not know. And yet it walks up some tree stalk, curls into a ball, and weaves itself into a cocoon to wait- for what? Maybe for something that its parent-butterfly has spoken about. But then, if you watch how the cocoon breaks into a butterfly, and how a butterfly lays some eggs that will turn into a caterpillar, you will not see any instance of mother-offspring bonding, no chance to talk? Everything then must already be implanted deep inside a caterpillar’s consciousness as it breaks out from an eggs, becomes the creepy-crawly-eeky thingy for days on end, and then stuffs itself into a self-woven cocoon designed to withstand predators and bad weather, to break out once again, this time as a butterfly. Po the Kung Fu panda, has a word for that, “Awesome!”

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Has there ever been a caterpillar that rebelled against the norm? We wonder. But then, that must mean sure death, now imagine oneself dying as a worm. No offense meant for the worms, but if you did have the chance to grow wings, would you content yourself to just crawling? I won’t. I’m sure some would; there will always be those who will find fulfillment in the slowness of a crawl, and the attachment to a twig. There will always be those who will find awesomeness in nibbling on leaves until a plant loses all its greens, even when there is the opportunity to sip nectar and be truly awesome. (And yes, I’m describing people here, many of whom you might recognize in your life).

Does the caterpillar know that? I don’t think so. But by listening to what is deep inside, it simply curls up and weaves a cocoon. The humans have long found a name for that inexplicable wisdom that pumps deep inside, they call it faith and many a human has made a fortune preaching that faith, when a human simply has to listen to what the heart is saying and go with it to wake up one day in graceful splendor of one who has found that inner counsel, strength, and the path to one’s inner grandeur, one’s awesomeness.

The secret is not to quibble because in quibbling, the inner voice of wisdom implanted is lost, drowned out by the noise of an ever-suspicious mind. Many a prophet and a sage have found this path. Meditation, they call it. Being quiet is all it takes. What can be quieter than inside a cocoon that predators and weather cannot break (except humans of course, if they so wish to) until it is time to break.

It’s 3 a.m., I opted to sleep to drown out my housemate’s penchant to pay the television at full volume earlier on. Now the world is quiet and with no idea what to write about and how to tackle voluminous notes, I type on the quiet guiding the mind to weave out words that have long been woven by practice and meditation.

Indeed, there is power in being quiet, being still, for only then will the quieter realms of one’s consciousness be allowed to spring forth and be heard. Woe to those then who live their lives in din and disquiet, woe too, to those who only see the bad, and worse, those who quibble and shout in denial of what is good, finding malice when there is none, imputing bad intentions and actions where there is but the desire for common good and quiet wisdom. Loud, we call them. saestremera@yahoo.com