The White Moth
It was a full moon this weekend. Some close friends had planned a late-night gathering by Lake Ontario, just a five-minute bike ride from our place. The plan was simple — sit by the fire, have a few drinks, and take in the Toronto skyline under the night sky.
I had wanted to go. It’s a beautiful spot, surprisingly private. My dad used to call it the Cape of Good Hope when we lived in the beachfront condos and walked there every weekend. Back then, my daughter was tiny — maybe three. Now she’s taller than me, a young woman in her teens. She had just come back from two weeks at a sleepaway camp north of Toronto, where the land seems to melt into little heavens, hugging beaches the color of lapis.
In the end, I decided to stay. I didn’t want to be even five minutes away from her. We ordered tacos and churros, stayed in, watched horror movies, and laughed.
Lately, I’ve been trying to weave in stories of my characters when they become parents. It happened without overthinking — in the first book, they fall in love with each other, and then what? My first book’s structure came naturally; I didn’t even think about the storyline. It was all downloaded from somewhere deep inside me in less than a month. I just wrote it, edited it, wrote again, edited again and again. Two years in making now. But the second one is different.
I wouldn’t call it a struggle — because honestly, I’m having fun. Dipping into the emotions of becoming a mother feels familiar, but exploring the other side — becoming a father — has been harder. And then there’s the thing holding the storyline: the complexity of a relationship with the one person in your life you’d do anything for — even die for. Not exactly easy to write.
This morning, after my usual reading time, I woke up fresh and full of energy — ready to tackle the Sunday chores with the extra loads of laundry after her camp. We then played tennis with my husband, swam with my close friend and even had ice cream. The afternoon was calm, the way I like it. I’m a social person, but somehow Sundays are the days I prefer to stay away from people. I want my garden, family, dog, music, to be in my corner of writing. I need to cool my mind and zoom in.
It’s a hot August this year. Not that I’m complaining, but I’ve had to water the garden twice. My roses, especially, aren’t doing well — it’s too hot for them. While watering, I noticed a bumblebee clinging to my white hydrangea. The spray of water pushed against him, yet he held on. I stepped closer, taking in the bloom’s white petals with pinkish shadows that I know will deepen by September. For some reason, I felt the urge to test the bee — to keep watering, to watch him to struggle and hold on. Then in the same frame of my garden, there it was, a white moth. It was pondering around my garden, elegantly, checking every corner, every flower, without landing, without settling down. I turned off the water and watched.
Later in the afternoon, I asked ChatGPT, “What’s special about a white moth?” One answer stood out: it’s a symbol of the soul and spirit of the ancestors, watching over the living. A white moth entering your home is said to mean the soul of a loved one is nearby.
I’m not sure yet where this will lead, but I have a feeling I’ve just found the key to the structure of my second book. I’m only a chain ring connecting generations of love.
The key is to ponder.
