The other day, I was going by a window in the house and noticed a big moth. My first reaction was "Phooey".
But it opened its wings, and … a flashback. Little me with a handmade net spending days and nights out in wildflower fields until my grandparents dragged me home. I was hunting anything that could fly, be it sleepy moths hanging out at dusk time, fireflies hypnotizing me at night, small blue noisy dragonflies, nimble grasshoppers or actual butterflies, which seem like a real treasure to most of the kids.
Back then I knew for sure that all of those creatures were indeed beautiful, and so were frogs and even toads, lizards, mermen and all kinds of bugs, but not spiders for some reason. (I have been afraid of those eight-legged, eight-eyed monsters throughout my entire life).
Back then I also knew that all flowers were gorgeous, and I couldn't understand why grandma would nurture some, feeding, watering and weeding them, while others she didn't like at all, and she made my cousin and me go pull them out. Dandelions and bindweed's little white bells looked as attractive to me as marigolds or zinnias.
Peonies, roses and lilies, on the other hand, inspired my respect and made me a bit afraid. They looked very aristocratic, like something that could come from the store, so I wouldn't come anywhere close, too afraid of getting into trouble if something goes wrong while I'm around those fancy flowers. But some daisies grandma planted every year looked like the ones I was tasked to extricate, which didn't make much sense.
And then there were wildflowers, which grandma would approve for a bouquet for the table, but not for the garden. So, in the adult world, they were better than weeds but worse than cultivated flowers.
In my world they all were flowers. The word flower in my narrow vocabulary was a synonym for beauty, which in its turn, was very close to happiness.
Back then I knew nothing about invasive species or moths, eating fur coats in the closet. Then, anything that was unique, was beautiful. And everything seemed unique for a young eye. Every rock, every piece of glass, every leaf, every creature, every emotion, and every minute of every day were inimitable. And I treasured them all, not making any difference. (I still remember grandma's grumpy look when I brought her a bouquet of thistle one day. But I have to give her credit - despite her dispraise, she did put my "flowers" in a vase for a day.)
I'm not sure when it changed. As I grew older, without notice, flowers that were a symbol of beauty turned into ugly weeds that need to be sprayed, and magnificent butterflies I was collecting to be like Nabokov turned into gross moths. And with that, the rest of the world's uniqueness was also fading.
I'm sure most of you, my readers, can resonate with my frustration. I look back at my week nowadays and all I can recollect is just a couple of things that kept me busy. Too often I drive to the farm or Regina and don't even notice the landscape. I miss deer hiding in blooming canola fields (as long as they are not on the road, right?) and curious owls sitting on power poles. I don't sense emotions and feelings as well. Too often, I don't realize how exceptional some happenings and minutes are, as I'm in a hurry to get things done.
My brain notices things I've seen before and sweeps them under the "been there, done that" carpet. And in a rush of daily life, I either don't even notice them consciously, or take them as something ordinary and boring, like that moth on the window.
We grow up and get used to things, to open up space and time to learn and take on new endeavours. I'm sure it's all a part of the smart adjustment process we all go through to be efficient. But I also think it's a choice to pay more attention to the world around, to see, rather than just watch, to hear rather than just listen, and to feel rather than nod and skip.
I watched that moth for some time, and believe it or not, I could see a butterfly again.
It's mid-July already and winter will be here in no time, so after meeting that moth, I made a promise to myself to try noticing as many warm and beautiful moments of this summer as possible in real-time and not in a retrospective. It may not go too far, but I know I'll notice more than before.
