Life in Cocoonville
Adamus Saint-Germain is the first one I heard use the term "Cocoonville," and it made me smile, so I am borrowing it.
It feels like I've been in Cocoonville for an awful long time. The caterpillar doesn't get any prettier or healthier looking as she heads into town. She dies off, cell by old cell, and turns into a mush that only resembles a squashed caterpillar.
One of my greatest conundrums, therefore, my greatest struggle has been maintaining my own truth that we don't have to age and get old among a mass consciousness of humans terrified of growing old in health and looks, yet fiercely hanging onto "this is what happens to your body and mind when you reach this age, and that age--everything sags, bags, wrinkles, fades and falls apart...and then you die."
And they want to preserve all that decay in a coffin after they've died. Some of those coffins buried in the ground are more expensive than their wardrobe when they lived. What's the point?
I've observed us humans acting out and manifesting in our bodies what we believe and perceive as appropriate to the number of years we've been here, but I don't really connect with that idea. My mom didn't either. I remember her laughingly commenting that all the younger people in her life were catching up to her.
When someone asks me the question, "How old are you?" I've usually just given them the short version they are expecting...and...inside I've got a whole other version that is more accurately my truth of the moment: