A Reflection for the Remembering Ones: The Day the Moths Rose
There are days when the fire dims,
when the lantern you carry feels heavy—its glow more ember than blaze.
You rise not to clarity, but to questioning.
And still… the world turns. The calls arrive. The laundry piles.
The mundane marches on like a quiet drummer in the woods.
This morning was one of those days.
Tiredness sat beside me like an old companion.
And in that weariness, I laid my body down.
But the mind did not rest—it wandered.
To questions that come for all those walking a sacred path:
Why am I here?
What is next?
What still holds value?
Where does my soul want to go… and am I willing to follow?
No answers came wrapped in certainty.
But the Earth whispered in subtle ways.
A ladybug danced on the greenhouse.
Two white moths spiraled into the sky, in their own sacred union.
A loyal companion stretched into the moss below.
And somewhere between folding towels and warming pizza,
I found the holy in the humbling.
We are told that strength looks like motion, like action.
But I say:
True strength is being still, enough to feel.
To witness without rushing to fix.
To let Spirit move through you when your own limbs falter.
The world may not always understand this kind of being—
one who listens to insects glittering in sunlight,
who prays with their presence when their thoughts run thin,
who lets grief and mystery sit beside them without needing to name them.
This is not a weakness.
This is a sacred pause.
A mystic’s breath.
The medicine of simply being.
And when the world tugs at your edges, demanding answers—
Return to the image of the moths rising.
Let it be your reminder:
Not all paths are straight. Not all knowing is immediate.
Sometimes the sacred arrives on wings of silence.
So true!