The Devil: the Infinite Cocoon
It’s October. The air is balmy and sweet, a little like a Mediterranean winter. In the mornings the light is silvery-grey, and last night the fall wind was banging my screen door. The geese call “Come with us.”
I feel small and old and inward. Like a cocoon, except the hatching point of this cocoon is right out of this world. The last cocoon. Last night I dreamed I was in a vast shopping concourse. I had come up out of a subway, feeling pleased with myself for navigating it all, but never could find my way out of the concourse. Each time I saw what appeared to be daylight along some wing of the complex, it wasn’t. But as I wandered I realized I had complete vision. I could see everything – I was no longer blind. Maybe the cocoon is infinitely big inside?
But I want to fly. Once upon a time I would have. I would have scraped together the few dollars I have, nudged a credit card, and gone. To Vancouver to see my son. To Halifax, to see another one, and a cousin, and the Atlantic Ocean. Back to China to visit my old home and my beloved friend Han Fei.
I don’t. I sit here by the open window feeling the cool soft advent of fall, the growing darkness arrive. I feel peace and excitement within it.
Or do I? Is this just Stockholm syndrome, loving my jailer rather than fighting for freedom? As I say this I can feel its truth. Yes. Spread your wings one more time. Fly. Crash. Never come back if that’s what’s needed. You would have done it once. Why not now?
Inside the cocoon a life is growing. It is gentle. I have found the care and assistance I need for my life. I am healing a variety of old wounds. I live in deep peace, accompanied by deep sorrow, an albatross far from the sea.
This is the paradox of the Devil. Those goat horns give you a clue – he’s got to have something to do with Capricorn. He’s sometimes called “The Lord of the Gates of Matter”. The Master of Manifestation. The Jailer. With his energy we can build a beautiful container for our life. And know that any container is a prison. Or is it the other way round? That he traps us in containers, and that we have the choice to imbue them with beauty, or fight to the death?
The Cathars, a Gnostic Christian sect wiped out in the Albigensian Crusade in the thirteenth century, believed that Matter was a prison, the work of the Devil, and that we were trapped in it.
About seven hundred years later Joni Mitchell gave it another shot “We are stardust, we are golden, million-year-old carbon, caught in the Devil’s bargain
I am living in the centre of the question right now. I can see when I’m inside the cocoon. Outside I fly blind, but I have strong wings. I’ll keep you posted. The interesting thing about the cocoon is that it’s infinite on the inside.