I plucked my first insect of the year out of the animals water bucket a week ago. It was a moth and I was certain it was dead, its powdery tissue paper wings rumpled and saturated, a missing leg.
It was raining pretty hard so I eased the moth from the tip of my finger onto a dried hydrangea that got stuck in the corner of the barn.
Then miraculously I saw her twitch.
The slightest movement that could have been a death spasm. But as I continue to watch she lifted a front leg and straightened an antenna.
When I came back after filling the hay feeders, the moth was gone.
It happened again yesterday.
This time in the parking lot at the Village Market. Jon wondered out loud what I was doing as I bent down to lift a moth, her waterlogged, white wings spread out on the wet blacktop like a Lepidopterist’s specimen.
Once again I was sure the moth was dead. “Then why,” Jon asked, “did I pick it up if I though it dead.”
It wasn’t something I had thought about, just something I did. Consciously, I guess, it was that I didn’t want it to be stepped on or squished by a cars tire, even if it was dead.
But I wonder if subconsciously, I didn’t believe that maybe it was still alive.
Because now that I think about it, over the past couple of years, I’ve witnessed how many moths, almost preternaturally, have an ability to resurrect.
I really should know by now that what looks to me like a drowned moth, soggy and lifeless, isn’t necessarily a dead moth. How many times will I have to see a moth “come back” to life before I’m not surprised by it anymore?
It might be that it just hasn’t registered in my brain yet. That it will take many more repetitions before I look at a water soaked moth and my brain registers “alive” instead of “dead”.
Or maybe I’m caught up in the little miracle that seems to take place in front of me. And I don’t want to give that up.
When I placed the moth I found in the parking lot on a pile of leaves out of harms way, she immediately stood up on all six legs, reached her wings straight up and shook herself off.
By the time we were done shopping, she was gone.
Maria, I connect your resurrected moths with the beautiful dragonfly you created. Also a chance to quote my favorite poem from Roethke: *I wake to sleep/ And take my waking slow/ I learn by going/ where I have to go.* Maybe you were meant to be the moth whisperer!
I’m so glad Micki. And the poem is so perfect for what I’ve been thinking about lately. I may have to borrow it.
I think those little everyday miracles bring us joy and restore hope. If that waterlogged moth can get by with a little help from a friend like you, then maybe we all can have our waterlogged spirits uplifted with an everyday miracle. I’m glad you’re in awe of the little miracles even if they happen often. I am too
Everyday miracle is just right Josie. And they are all around us. We just have to be open to them. They speak of possibility to me too.
Wow, nature is amazing!
It certainly is Richard. :)
Thank you, Maria. I also move anything like the “dead-looking” moth so it does not get stepped on or run over. Respect for that life. I hope other people will consider doing this. It is important.
:)