The Moth . . .

This weekend was a tough one all around. It was remarkably cold, and for someone with a pretty bad intolerance for cold temperatures, it was hard to stay focused. Sunday in particular was rough; we lost a faery at midday, and several of the rest of us were back in the shack from time to time, warming up and dealing with nausea and such.

Yet, Sunday still had its bright spots, rather like the weather: you would be shivering in a chill wind, and suddenly the clouds would part and the sun would hit you full in the face. Early Sunday morning, I was standing on a bench outside a shop I love that sells beautiful wind chimes (it was particularly musical this weekend), and these four kids ran up to me. They had passes, so they were kids of shopkeepers, or as we affectionately tend to refer to them: "faire kids". These children are a little different than patron kids; they see us backstage too, when we are out of makeup, on our way to a bathroom break, chatting with friends, etc. And yet, for the most part, when they see us onsite they still look at us with wonder, strengthened perhaps by the faith they must have to separate us from the people they see after hours. These kids ran up, offering me leaves, and I interacted with them for a few minutes. Then, they ran off, and I didn't think I would see them again. I climbed down from the bench and started back to the glen, and they came running back. The oldest girl had her hands carefully cupped over something which she offered me, and when I leaned in to look I saw a delicate white moth, alive but with a damaged wing which guaranteed he would never really fly again. I took him very gently onto my hand and transferred him carefully onto a branch I had been walking around with, shielding him from the chill wind with my hand and the curving leaves covering the branch. Then, I began the slow, careful walk back to the glen.

I cannot really describe what it is like to protect something so small; all I could think of was that I didn't want him to die in the street, stepped on by an unwary patron. I knew he couldn't survive long the way he was, but I wanted him to die with us, in our glen, safe. I brought him to Autumn and Dragon and their eyes grew big when they saw the passenger on my branch; the children nearby looked carefully at him there. Perhaps these children, in another setting, would have been frightened of the moth, or would have stepped on him. But, here they were as enchanted as we were. After a few moments I rose with him and carried him to Spidera and her web, and she took him carefully and found a safe place to leave him.

This summer I have felt incredibly connected and protective of the world around me, from the little bird third weekend, to the dragonfly last week, and now this tiny moth. What a wonderful place we inhabit; I need to remember to take the time to appreciate it even after the patrons have gone home and the makeup is packed away for another year, even when I'm not a faery.