One morning as I stepped out of my apartment, something on the floor stopped me in my tracks.
Spread across the tile just outside my door was one of the largest moths I had ever seen. Its wings stretched nearly six or seven inches across. Had I been looking at my phone or simply rushing out, I might have stepped on it without ever knowing it was there.
For a moment I wondered if it was dead. I gently touched one of its wings. It fluttered ever so slightly.
It was alive.
Its markings were extraordinary, with patterns that looked remarkably like the eyes of an owl. I paused long enough to take a photograph before heading downstairs, assuming it would be gone by the time I returned.
That day happened to be the first day in quite a while that I intentionally gave myself permission to slow down. Instead of working, I spent the afternoon at the pool and walking along the beach. It was a day of much-needed self-care.
I remember thinking, I should look up what kind of moth this is.
Then life distracted me, and I forgot.
When I returned home that evening, I noticed it again.
This time it wasn't outside my apartment. After stepping off the elevator several floors above ground-level, I saw it resting along the open-air corridor overlooking the sea.
Again, I thought it was strange.
Why would it still be here after all those hours?
Again I told myself I would look it up.
Again, I got distracted and forgot.
The next day I noticed it once more.
This time it wasn't resting. It was flying through the hallway, almost as though it was determined to get my attention.
So I finally paid attention and looked it up.
I learned it was a Black Witch moth (Ascalapha odorata), one of the largest moths in the Americas. Found throughout Panama, Central America, Mexico, and much of South America, it has inspired stories and traditions for generations. Among some cultures, it is associated with death, while others believe it represents a visit from someone who has crossed over.
As I continued reading, I found myself thinking about death in a different way. Not as an ending, but as the quiet release of an old way of being. The kind of death that makes room for transformation, renewal, and new life.
That resonated deeply.
Over the past several weeks I have found myself in a season of profound change. It has shown up physically, emotionally, and through unusually vivid dreams. My father, who passed away a little more than three years ago, has been visiting me often in those dreams. Reading about the traditions surrounding the Black Witch felt deeply relevant to where I found myself emotionally and spiritually. It didn't feel like a warning. It felt like a gentle reminder that transformation often asks us to let go before we can grow.
After I finally took the time to learn about the Black Witch moth and the traditions surrounding it, I never saw it again.
The timing felt significant.
One of the unexpected gifts of spending these months in Panama has been rediscovering a way of seeing the world that many Indigenous peoples throughout Panama, Central America, South America, and Mexico have carried for generations. The natural world is not separate from us. It has its own wisdom, and if we are willing to slow down enough to listen, it often has something to teach us.
For me, the Black Witch was a reminder of transformation. Not something to fear, but something to honor. A quiet invitation to let go of what no longer serves me so that something new has room to emerge.
The moth eventually disappeared.
The message didn't.
Perhaps we all experience moments when the natural world quietly asks us to pay attention. Whether through a bird, a butterfly, a moth, or the wind moving through the trees, these encounters invite us to pause long enough to notice what is unfolding not only around us, but within us.
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