I hate transitions! They never are fun,
Like going to college when high school is done,
Like being a champion and having to lose,
Like being a landlubber sent on a cruise,
Like plunging in ice water after a sauna,
Like changing your diet to flora from fauna.
You’re innocent, then worldly.
It happens over night.
You’re tomboy, then you’re woman,
No going back to get it right.
You get your first kiss in the back of a car,
And soon you’ve “transitioned” a little too far.
With breath-taking speed, you’re suddenly married,
Tied to a job, middle-aged, divorced, buried.
If just for a week the floors would stay swept,
The dishes stay stacked, and the promises kept.
If only a week the mill would stop grinding,
The tide would stop ebbing,
The cheese would stop binding.
Life is all change and mutation and flux.
It’s too hard to follow.
I wish I could chuck it and stay here in bed.
When all this is over, I’m gonna stay dead.
Twenty years now of change and mutation and flux
Have passed since I wrote the line, “Transition sucks!”
‘Twas doggerel then and a tongue-in-cheek choice
To whine about change in that sad, female voice.
But as everything changes, I’ve changed my position
On the value and meaning and need for transition.
Though transitions keep us on edge and off balance,
They make us adaptive and offer a challenge.
We shouldn’t expect to be comfortable... ever;
Change keeps us light on our feet... keeps us clever.
It shakes us, and wakes us, and makes us be steady,
Prepared, alert, thoughtful, agile, and ready.
The Rapture is nighing, our private “Last Times”;
Why fill precious hours with idle pastimes.
The stopwatch is ticking, the sands running low;
The time to complete the transition is now!
Life’s not a mystery; it’s not meant to outwit us;
It’s clear practice for transit... the final transitus.
But we must transit here. As the sad lady said,
When all this is over, we’re “gonna stay dead.”
A flower struggles mightily under the sod,
Then rises to offer its glory to God.
Its a transitus earthly, uplifting, and aerial;
No grim rites follow, no mourning... no burial.
The seed pod of ego helps us rise from the dust,
But self is a pod we can shed. And we must...
To dance in our glory free of fear and desire
And rise unencumbered by self... like a flower.
Ego dies in the transit. Transit now! Let it go!
Resisting transition is no way to grow.
Let the bloom of your glory rise clear of the mud,
Like fearless, sweet Jesus adance on the flood.
Be the flowering sunset ablaze at your dusk,
And leave to the reaper the pod and the husk.
Then beyond all horizons, the West, and the night,
Go one with the Sun... to the infinite Light.
Whosoever will save his life shall lose it,
and whosoever will lose his life... shall find it.