Molting

Where I grew up there’s a dialect word to indicate a crab when it’s molting: “moeca”. This could be translated into English as “softy”: indeed, crabs in this state are soft and vulnerable (and often illegally fished since they seem to be quite a delicacy). 

Well, I feel like a “moeca” in this moment: soft and vulnerable as I shed some old skin and slowly turn more wholly into what I am or what I want to be. Which is still partly unknown even to me — and the reason I feel this vulnerability. Shaky like a fawn on its long, lanky, uncoordinated, wobbly legs; shaky in this uncertainty but also somehow already feeling the knowledge (or hope?) of the antelope that will come out. 

This vulnerability is scary but it’s also wonderfully beautiful: and maybe it’s partly the uncertainty that gives this moment its beauty, that uncertainty that still leaves all paths open.