destinylaharris

Tag: nature

  • Learning to Look Closer #4

    Most people probably wouldn’t have stopped for her.

    She was just a little brown moth outside near the cat food.

    And with cats around, that probably wasn’t the safest place for her to be.

    So I picked her up.

    I expected her to fight me.

    To flutter her wings, scramble away, or do whatever tiny moths do when a giant human suddenly decides to scoop them up.

    She didn’t.

    She just let me.

    No fighting.

    No struggling.

    She sat completely still on the tip of my finger while I carried her somewhere safer.

    And maybe I’m giving a tiny moth far too much credit, but in that moment, it felt a little like trust.

    So, naturally, I stopped to look closer.

    Up close, she wasn’t just a little brown moth anymore.

    Her head was covered in soft, golden-brown fuzz. Her wings looked almost like velvet, folded neatly against her back. Her antennae were impossibly thin, and those tiny black legs held onto my finger while I moved her away from danger.

    She was beautiful.

    Not in the bright, obvious way butterflies tend to be.

    Moths are quieter about it.

    Butterflies get flowers and gardens and people stopping to take pictures.

    Moths get porch lights and people trying to shoo them out of the house.

    But look closer.

    There’s something beautiful about them, too.

    Maybe that’s one of my favorite things about taking pictures.

    It gives me an excuse to stop long enough to notice things I might otherwise walk right past.

    The fuzzy head.

    The tiny feet.

    The way plain brown wings turn almost golden when the light hits them.

    And sometimes, a tiny creature trusting you enough to let you carry her somewhere safe.

    She was only on my finger for a little while.

    But it was long enough for me to notice her.

    Sometimes that’s all it takes.

    — Destiny

    P.S. What’s something small you almost overlooked lately?

    Fediverse Reactions

  • Learning to Look Closer #2: Just Outside the Window

    My nephew was standing at the window this morning when a tiny robber fly flew up to the glass.

    For a minute, it almost seemed like they were entertaining each other.

    It would fly away, then come back again, hovering just long enough to catch his attention. Every time it returned, he lit up a little more.

    Then it landed.

    I grabbed my phone, quietly walked over, and snapped a single picture through the window.

    One click.

    That was all I got.

    As soon as the photo was taken, it lifted off and disappeared.

    The whole moment probably lasted less than a minute.

    Most people would’ve seen a bug on a window.

    I saw a tiny reminder that wonder doesn’t always announce itself.

    Sometimes it visits for thirty seconds, waits patiently while you’re paying attention, and leaves before you realize you’ve just been given something worth remembering.

    Maybe that’s why I love photography.

    Not because it lets me capture beautiful things.

    Because it reminds me to notice them while they’re still here.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. Have you ever had an ordinary moment that stayed with you far longer than you expected?

  • Between the Lines #1

    I wrote this before this blog ever existed.

    It was tucked away in one of my notebooks, waiting for the right place to live.

    I think it found that place here.

    Scars

    The gods always asked

    for sacrifices.

    Some were given lambs.

    Some were given daughters.

    I was given myself.

    No temple stood above me,

    no choir sang my name,

    yet something holy

    was taken all the same.

    Every pale line

    is another language

    my body learned

    instead of peace.

    The ones across my legs

    look like rivers

    on an old map—

    proof that even broken things

    search for somewhere

    to belong.

    People ask

    if I regret them.

    As if regret

    could erase history.

    As if skin

    ever forgets

    the knife,

    the fingernails,

    the hands that held too tightly,

    the nights that stole

    more than sleep.

    My skin is carved with scars

    that someone else earned.

    Not mine.

    Mine was only the body

    left behind

    after their hands,

    their words,

    their silence

    had already decided

    what would become of it.

    My skin was never sacred.

    It was only the altar.

    They called it survival.

    The gods

    would have called it

    an offering.

    Maybe that’s why

    I no longer pray

    for smooth skin.

    I pray instead

    for gentler hands,

    for quieter nights,

    for a body

    that no longer mistakes

    silence

    for safety.

    If the gods ever come looking

    for the pieces

    they abandoned,

    they’ll find them here—

    written beneath my skin,

    where every scar

    became a sentence,

    every sentence

    became a story,

    and somewhere along the way,

    I stopped being

    the sacrifice.

    I became

    the monument.

    Until next time,

    — Destiny

    P.S. Which line stayed with you the longest?