I think this sums things up:
You can fly… but that cocoon has to go
But the risk—oh, the risk of leaving the swaddling
warmth of a cocoon. My cocoon. My status quo.
My. . . deadening security.
To leave the known,
no matter how confining it may be—for an unknown,
a totally new lifestyle—
oh, the risk!
Lord, my cocoon chafes, sometimes. But I know its
restrictions. And it’s scarey to consider the awful
implications of flight. I’m leery of heights. (Even
your heights.)
But, Lord, I could see so much wider, clearer
from heights.
And there’s an exhilaration about flight that I
have always longed for.
I want to fly. . .
if I could just have the cocoon to come back to.
Butterflies can’t.
Probably butterflies don’t even want to—
once they’ve tasted flight.
It’s the risk that makes me hesitate.
The knowing I can’t come back to the warm, undemanding
status quo.
Lord. . . about butterflies. . .
the cocoon has only two choices—
risk
or die
What about me?
If I refuse to risk,
do I, too, die inside, still wrapped in the swaddling
web?