For two weeks each year, the termite mounds on the Brazillian Cerrado light up the night. The source of these lights are not the termites, but headlight beetle larvae. The larvae live inside the outer part of mound, only emerging during the few weeks each year when male and female termites take flight. The glowing bodies of the larvae draws the termites like moths to a flame, allowing the larvae to grab and devour them. The larvae collects as many termites as they can and place them in their larder within the mound, which needs to last until the next flying season. This very limited availability of food means that it takes two years for the larvae to turn into adult beetles.
I am moonlight and moth flight,
owl wing and wonder.
I am flutter and flicker,
last glimmer of twilight,
first shimmer of starlight.
I will take wing and dance
in the shadow of moonbeams,
for you my beloved,
I’m about to toss myself in bed to get a couple hours of sleep before a very early flight, but wanted to post these two wee moths I made before my very welcome vacation (more on that later!).
They’re examples for an embroidery workshop I’m teaching at the end of April, but I love them so much I’ve decided they’re also my friends*
*I’m re-reading Anne of Green Gables right now in advance of watching more of the new series that’s being aired here & I think Anne-with-an-E’s way of thinking is percolating even more so than usual in my brain!
I really don’t like the whole ‘medicine cats can’t have kits’ rule.
Not because it’s a bad rule. It’s actually a good one that makes sense for medicine cats with no apprentice.
The reason I hate the rule is because of why it exists.
Moth Flight was a young adult when she had her kits. She was a brand new, first-time mother and the very first medicine cat. She panicked when one of her kits almost drowned and a dead cat had to come down and help her.
This rule exists because an inexperienced, first-time mother who had no proper medicine cat training, panicked and forgot how to save a drowning cat, something she had only done once before on a newborn kit.
Several cats(Leafpool, Yellowfang and Mudfur), have already proven her wrong, as have countless other medicine cats who had to treat siblings and parents, and I’m pretty sure at least a couple other medicine cats in the past have had kits. Medicine cats in the modern clans are taught how to be calm in the face of death and injuries. Their mentors quiz them and make sure they know what every herb is for and how to save a drowned cat, probably practicing with moss to make sure their apprentice knows how much pressure should be added.
Moth Flight never got that type of training. The only reason she even knew how to save a drowning cat is because she saw a RiverClan cat save a drowned kit before. Had she not been in RiverClan at the time, Juniper Branch’s newborn kit and Spider Paw probably would have died no matter what.
Also, friendly reminder that Moth Flight made this decision last minute, by herself, when another medicine cat spoke of how fond she was for a tom. The other medicine cats didn’t get a choice as Moth Flight poorly explained why they weren’t able to have kits. Moth Flight is a panicky cat who constantly doubted her own abilities and yet the other medicine cats were forced to trust and believe in her because she was the only one of them who had kits and that suddenly allowed her to choose their futures for them.
Yes, motherly instincts are strong, but a cat who panics over losing their kit would probably panic if their own mother was dying right in front of them, or their siblings or father. Hollyleaf quit training as a medicine at apprentice because she couldn’t stand to see the cats she cared about injured and didn’t like treating them.
New medicine cats shouldn’t have kits, but there is no reason medicine cats with fully trained apprentices can’t and cats in the past have proven that.
Nessuno mi crede quando dico che qui in Sicilia di notte tu luna sei più vicina alla terra perché sfiori il mare nel sorgere e lenta percorri il velluto del cielo per sentire il profumo della zagara appena fiorita o dei piccoli gelsomini nel loro imitare aprendosi, le stelle infinite. Nessuno mi crede quando dico che tu luna accarezzi le onde del mare e chiami i pesci a cercarti a sentire la tua melodia fatta dalla nostra infinita umana malinconia. Nessuno mi crede quando dico che tu luna ti fermi a volte per ascoltare le labili promesse d’amore dei giovani amanti, così assolute e quasi gridate, così inutili, provvisorie ed esagerate. Poi ti fermi a commuoverti luna per le parole sincere degli amanti maturi che già hanno promesso amori eterni che non sono durati o che sono diventati inferni, ed ora di nuovo, tra precauzioni e tentennamenti ripetono quando avevano maledetto, prigionieri come tutti del cuore e dei suoi sentimenti. Tu ti avvicini nel fruscio del grano maturo, nel lento e leggero gorgogliare delle acque nelle ormai secche fiumare ed ascolti il nostro gioire ed il nostro penare e senza giudicare prosegui il tuo continuo volare. Nessuno mi crede quando dico che tu luna torni sempre a cercare chi alla tua luce ha fatto promesse d’amore e che ancora mantiene invulnerabile al tempo, impermeabile ai dolori e continua incessante ad amare e pretendere amore come il primo giorno, il primo istante, il primo bacio rivelatore. Nel volo delle falene e degli ultimi pipistrelli tu avevi raccolto quelle promesse stringendole al tuo cuore ed ora che le rivedi ancora più vere e sincere, ancora di più tra le tue braccia brillano più luminose ed eterne ed è questa la luce che ancor di più, qui ti fa splendere.
Nobody believes me when I say that here in Sicily at night your moon is closer to the earth because you touch the sea in the rising and slow pace of the velvet of the sky to feel the perfume of the blooming blossom or the little jasmine in their imitating the stars endless. Nobody believes me when I say that you moon caress the waves of the sea and call the fish to look for you to hear your melody made by our infinite human melancholy. Nobody believes me when I say that you moon sometimes stop listening to the labile promises of love of young lovers, so absolute and almost shouting, so useless, provisional and exaggerated. Then you stop moving to the moon for the sincere words of mature lovers who have already promised eternal loves that have not lasted or that have become hell, and now again, between precautions and temptations repeat what they cursed, prisoners like everyone of the heart and in his feelings. You approach the rustle of ripe wheat, in the slow, light, bubbling waters of the already dry river, and listen to our joy and our penance and without judging continuing your continuous flying. No one believes me when I say that you moon always come to look for those who have made promises of love in your light and still remain invulnerable at the time, waterproof to pains and continues to love and love and love as the first day, as in the first instant, the first proven kiss. In the flight of the moths and the last bats you had picked those promises by tightening them to your heart, and now that the revelations are even more true and sincere, even more in your arms shine brighter and everlasting and this is the light that even more, here makes you shine.
Photo of the Day – A beautiful resident of the forest edges and clearings of South and Central America, the Rufous-tailed Jacamar (Galbula ruficauda) almost exclusively feeds on flying insects. Perching on exposed branches, it will sally out to catch insects in flight – including moths, butterflies and dragonflies. A very cool bird!
And don’t we both press our palms to our stomachs
and have them come back cold?
And aren’t there slight echoes coming from our mouths?
Like hundreds of moths and their faint, familial flight?
Like taste of ghost and sound of all that’s lost?
And haven’t we both tried? And bent?
And learned to breathe through clenched teeth and iron jaw?
And don’t we taste the honey in the night
and let it become sour on our tongues?
And don’t we wake with a cloud of rot
hanging from the roofs of our mouths?
And don’t we kiss anyway?
Though it’s unfilling?
Though it’s unwarm?
And isn’t this enough? And isn’t this where the white-knuckled hurt ends?
And isn’t this where I begin again?