A few years ago I started painting bones, specifically pelvises, in an abstract manner…it was a way to creatively reach some areas that I’d missed in my experience with Vernon’s ordeal. I hadn’t been there when his bones broke, and I wanted to return to the source of the story and have my own healing experience with it. I went to a yoga class around that time, and the teacher explained that the pelvis was the “junk drawer of the body….the place where all the extra stuff gets thrown in and forgotten about.” I thought that was a concept worth remembering. I also know those bones give structure to the most creative area of our body, physically and spiritually: the sacral chakra. What is more creative than making life? But beyond evolution, our artwork and personal expression emerge from that energy. Can you see the pelvis in this drawing? I think about how much has changed since the moment that pelvis cracked open on the pavement and the subsequent journey to now. I’ve reached a point where I can truly be thankful to his death as much as his love. I’m a different person than I was…and aren’t we all? But I know I’ve been allowed extra space (perhaps more than most) to change because of that. I do think that grief leads to a sort of enlightenment if you follow your own path through it. I used to imagine the path lighting up right before you were about to take a step. I suppose it is still that way, I just trust it now so I walk with more confidence and don't watch as closely.

Now, about the moth: what a strange creature…so like the butterfly, but not nearly as beloved. As far as I know, they go through the same stages of metamorphosis as their colorful relatives, except that the moth spins a cocoon, wrapped in a soft silk covering, and the butterfly forms a hard chrysalis. For me the main difference is that one is transformed in the sunlight of a garden, and the other in the shadows. The moth belongs to the dark, and the butterfly belongs to the day. So it is no wonder we glorify the butterfly most. We tend to shy away from the hidden, shadowy things in general. Also the moth is comparatively dull, usually white or brown, but sometimes they are magnificent with eyes painted on their wings.

Moths may go through their complex transformations in the dark, but they are wired to follow the light. They love the moon, while the butterfly follows the sun. We’ve all seen a moth inspired by a lightbulb or a flame. Foolhardy or not, they go for it, pulled in by its siren song. But haven’t you followed inspiration like that from time to time? Maybe it’s a ‘’wired” thing, and we shouldn’t resist. Maybe it’s a mirroring of the light inside, an ancient compass of its own. We scoff at the addictive impulse of the moth, but who can say he isn’t experiencing his life’s purpose (other than to multiply) in that moment? Who can say that in moth circles, those are the legends, the ones who die in the flame? That that isn’t the best life? I mean, how long do moths live anyway?

I remember an episode of “LOST,” years ago, where one of the characters was trapped in a cave with no way out, until he noticed a moth, and realized there must be a light source nearby. He followed the moth and escaped. That metaphor of the light-seeking moth stayed with me, and it was recently reignited when I had a dream in which a large white moth landed on my shoulder after I opened a long-hidden trapdoor. He was so grateful for bringing him the light (and escape) from above that he gave me presents. I identify with the moth more than the butterfly, and I also see it as a guide out of the dark.

“The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and hides from the moon. Every living creature responds to light. But depending on the amount of light you have inside, determines which lamp in the sky your heart will swoon.”—Suzy Kassem