Mothman (#146)
Sometimes, the moth leads us to light.
I am not normally a fan of moths.
I adopted another’s phobia, learning to fear wayward souls that found their way into our house on summer evenings, if one slightly paused at the front door as the day of play melted into dusk. Turning on the bedroom ceiling light, I’d find a new bunk mate: A fat moth, heavy wings pinging loudly against the square glass in a feverish attempt to reach the glow. I’d rush under the covers and wait for my father to dispatch with the misguided fellow. And even after the moth’s untimely end, I would tentatively peek an eye out from my blankets, searching for a second wave assault from another member of the moth army.
What do I have against moths, aside from their lack of respect for boundaries? Their erratic movement — how they swoop from the sky to one lamp, then another, in big, loopy cursive. Their movements cannot be predicted, and thus I cannot give them the wide berth I would like. (I realize that this speaks to issues best unveiled at $120/hour.)
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned more about their importance to Earth as part of the food chain to other creatures (who I wholeheartedly endorse, e.g., birds) and as a key player in pollination efforts. I do accept their value in the circle of life — but I usually do not like them.
On moving to a new neighbourhood last year, one of the first things we did was get acquainted with our new surroundings through walks. There were holes (the women who sat on stoops at the end of the day to release steam, the kind older neighbour who always stopped to chat in our yard, the pets next door that pawed at our patio door in search of affection). While the move was positive, and initial meetings with new neighbours were pleasant, these empty spaces left in our hearts needed soothing. This would, like many good things, take time.
Nearing Halloween, the houses on the street were dressed for the occasion in the usual garb. Pumpkins nestled on porches. Skeletons jangling from door frames. Cobwebs blowing in the breeze.
And, in one window, inexplicably, a moth.
A simple creature in its construction — black bristol board in the rough shape of a moth, handfuls of grey netting on the wings, two large buttons for eyes — the moth hung in the window, unblinking.
Like the remnants of the jack-o’-lanterns lining the sidewalks, Halloween soon melted into the late fall. As the ground hardened, the spooky gave way to sparkle, and made the daily walks brighter even as the days dimmed. Throughout the neighbourhood, there would be lights of every shade. Velvet bows on doors.
Except for one house.
Sure, there were candy canes that lit up. There were wireframe Canada geese, a raccoon, a squirrel, and — in an abandon of the woodland aesthetic — a rooster, all in scarves or hats.
But there was also one moth.
At this point, I was puzzled. Why not take the moth down? Why not add a Santa hat, if it was to stay at its post?
Why was there a moth in the first place?
And yet, it ushered in the new year.
And Valentine’s Day.
I’m not sure about you, reader, but the anxiety in the air has been very thick as of late — chewy, even. It has a feeling of early COVID days: unsure what new fresh hell will come through the wire.
And this decidedly chewy air, where nothing made sense anymore, has pushed me to search for light: beacons for dark, dim days. Glimmers, like newsletters and emails from lovely folks on here, the Science and SciArt feeds on BlueSky (glorious refuges that celebrate the best of our talents through narratives of marvel and optimism for future discovery). Books like Douglas Arava and Jane Goodall’s The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times, sharing wisdom in maintaining hope and resilience even when the deck seems to only be full of Jokers. And art that has no meaning or message, other than to exist and weave bright joy into days that are feeling rather weighty1.
Moths usually search for the light, be it ceiling or lamp. After a few months of walking past this cartoonish figure, though, it’s dawned on me that this one moth is instead pointing me to light. Even if, some days, it’s only a pinpoint in the dark.
What can be yours?
In fact, these joyful art pieces have inspired me to take part in a “100 Day Project” that completely has no purpose other than to hopefully bring a smile to someone’s face. It’s foolish and silly and I can’t wait to share with you in X more days.
I would rather have moths than centipedes. They only seek the dark places.