Like a Moth to a Flame

In life, most of the time, we think of ourselves like butterflies. In childhood as in any cycle of growth, we start out as caterpillars. Balancing curiosity and resistance, excitement and anxiety, as we explore our surroundings. Gathering food and knowledge of the world around us as we grow.

Then, the time may come when we find ourselves in a cocoon of transformation. It’s dark, and quiet; and though we anxiously wait for it to be daylight again, deep down, we are not afraid. For we know that this is the period when the unseen forces around us and within us–all the roots we have spent years growing and nurturing–are conspiring to turn us into butterflies.

But there’s another side to this metaphor–one which anyone who has known darkness will understand. One that answers the question:

What do we do when the light goes out?

The life cycles of butterflies depend upon the presence of the sun. But sometimes, in our lives, we may find ourselves in a season where it feels like the sun isn’t present at all. Where the night feels too long, too dark, to simply sit and wait for the sunrise.

In these seasons, we can take a lesson from a not-so-distant cousin of the butterfly: the moth.

The moth is deeply, senselessly attracted to light in all its forms. A lit candle or a florescent bulb can confuse the moth’s navigational systems, making it think it’s found a potential source of food. Once it’s found one of these light sources, the moth will hover near it for hours on end, never mind that it’s not receiving the kind of sustenance that will help it grow. The moth seems simply happy to wait near the light.

It may seem biologically useless to cultivate this kind of patience. But for creatures who feed on light, this kind of patience is survival itself. So how do we find and generate light where it feels like none exists?

The answer will vary among all of us. For me, I have found that creativity carries a unique quality to make us feel connected to ourselves where we didn’t before. Sitting by the computer as I write this, there’s a sense of communion, almost a spiritualness, between me and the page. Writing the truth of what I’m experiencing and making it into something beautiful is a balm for the soul. And hanging out in this space, I find myself in the presence of a certain kind of glow.

We may not always feel creative in darkness–because let’s face it, standing still is not exactly generative. But there are still things we can do to get that motor running. If you look back at the times and moments in your life when you were most creative, you can probably identify some common themes in the situation or environment beyond just yourself. Were you responding to a prompt? Were you having a writing workshop with friends, or sitting up at night alone by the light of your lamp? Did a specific event spur your inspiration? Even if it feels like it came from just you, there’s always an outside force there in communion with your creativity, helping the process along. That’s just part of what it means to be a human being.

I feel my most creative when in a coffee shop or public space, taking in the energy of others and watching the world go by. Lately, I've been visiting these types of places with my computer like a naturalist: notebook out, always ready for inspiration, willing to meet whatever visits me. Without fail, a butterfly will cross my path and make its way onto the page. Then I can bringing that specimen home with me and continue writing, taking comfort in the company of a small friend as we wait out the night together.

When we’re in darkness, darkness feels like a thing onto itself. A dark, sticky mass, a many-legged octopus, dragging us down into quicksand and miring us there. But it’s not. In life as in the daily revolution of the sun, darkness is simply the absence of light.

The sun will return, probably sooner than we think, and we will be butterflies again. But while the night is long and starless, let us be like the moth. Let us hover close to things that make us feel alive, taking no shame in our fluffy wings or quirky single-mindedness while we do. It’s only temporary, after all.

As Dumbledore said:

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”