Ode to the Oak Moths — Part I (A meditation on change, perception, and the quiet teachers in our midst)

When I moved into my new home, I found myself gifted — not with furniture or walls or even light — but with two grand and ancient oaks standing sentinel in my backyard. They felt like elders, their roots whispering beneath the soil, their branches reaching toward the sky with the quiet confidence of beings who have known centuries. I stood beneath them often, hand pressed to bark, feeling that pulse — that low hum of wisdom that only time and endurance can create. I’ve always been drawn to oak trees. Their thick, muscular trunks that seem to hold the weight of the world without complaint. Their sturdy, outstretched arms offering shade, shelter, and solace. Their leaves — jagged, strong, imperfectly perfect — like pages of a story written in resilience. I love how the older they get, the more beautiful they become. Isn’t that something? That age doesn’t take away from their splendor — it magnifies it. It deepens the story, etches grace into their form. One afternoon, chai in hand, I sat watching the sun begin its soft descent — that sacred time of day when everything is gold and forgiving. And then I saw them. At first, just one — a small, pale flutter. Then hundreds. Then thousands of oak moths rising and shimmering like living dust motes in the light. They blanketed the trees, danced around the branches, and clung tenderly to the leaves. My first reaction? Irritation. I felt that familiar tightening — that reflexive ugh. “They’ll ruin the leaves,” I thought. “They’ll make a mess of the tree. How ugly.” I couldn’t wait for the season to pass and for them to be gone. But later that week, again in my ritual of afternoon chai, I felt something shift. I asked myself — why am I so adverse to these moths? And like a small truth uncloaking itself, I realized: That thought wasn’t mine. It was borrowed — a quiet echo from others. The kind of collective complaint we absorb without question, until it becomes our own silent bias. And once I saw that, everything changed. The moths no longer appeared as invaders but as caretakers — delicate stewards in the cycle of renewal. They weren’t destroying the oaks. They were tending them. They fed on the old, tired leaves — the ones the tree no longer needed — so that new life could take its place. The oak, in turn, offered them shelter and sustenance, and in this sacred exchange, both thrived. What I once saw as destruction was, in truth, transformation. The moths were not a nuisance; they were catalysts. They taught me that decay is not the end of beauty — it is its beginning. Now, when I sit beneath my oaks and watch the soft flutter of wings, I feel only gratitude. I welcome them as teachers, as reminders that even what seems like loss can be a quiet act of love. I will miss them when they are gone. And I will wait for their return next season — the messengers of change, the keepers of renewal. Because now I see — nothing in nature is ever wasted, and nothing deserves to be dismissed. Every being, every moment, every fluttering moth has a place in the poetry of growth. Stay tuned for Part II — where these small miracles remind us how to tend to our own shedding, renewal, and self-care.