08/31/2026
Upon the last bright moon, I found a cheeky green hornworm nibbling my tomato leaves to n**e sticks.
I could have killed it.
But with a humble garden built for more than just myself and ravenous curiosity, I instead gathered it into a little terrarium to see what old magic would brew.
Barely 2 days later, the creature had buried itself beneath the soil and disappeared.
For weeks, there was nothing to see. For these little faeries do not display their alchemy like beloved butterflies. Rather, they dig down deep into the silent soil of darkness.
In the underworld, the worm surrendered its crawling body to the mystery. Giving its all to the liminal void of becoming literal goo with no real promises; only instinct & trust.
And, In the light of the next bright moon, it emerged as something else.
A hawk moth; resplendent in its delicate winged, nocturnal, and made-for-gardens of the night body. Sharp eyed & sharper tongued, it became a creature set to take its first feed from transcendent trumpets, now ready for nectar with depth that matches its own.
There was mutual recognition, for we both understood that we are the same.
A mirror of the worm and moth both, and of the liquidated portal of what lays between.
How many transformations require us to be buried for a while? To dissolve, molt, and become unrecognizable.
In a mythic lens, the darkness is not where things go to die, it is where they are made again.
There are whole worlds being woven in the dark. So as we find ourselves in hidden seasons, may you remember that you will indeed have grown wings.
