Never mind storks bringing babies and other myths of creation. I have my own fictional legend about how each of us arrives here: we stick out our thumb by the Great Roadside and the planet stops to give us a ride. Where ya headin’? Around the sun? Cool. Thanks. That’ll get me there.

It’s an act of kindness when the planet allows us to hitchhike for as long as eighty, ninety, even a hundred sun circles before dropping us off again. I’m mindful that my entire life is dependent upon that benevolence, and I don’t take it for granted. Passing along kindness to others is always the best way to deserve more, so I feel conflicted when I’m heading down the Interstate with an empty seat beside me and I pass another soul with a thumb out. I would love to offer rides in the same spirit of kindness.

But I don’t. And I don’t feel tranquil about it. I feel a vague sense of guilt and unease as I turn up the music and keep rolling. Still, the average hitchhiker I pass has broken eyes, dirty features, and a sense of hardness that scares me. I don’t feel confident that my attempt at kindness would be met with integrity. It feels like a wise risk of self-preservation to leave the latest ragged drifter at the roadside, lest I be robbed, invite unknown mental breakdowns in, or otherwise have good intention turn to nightmare. It’s fear, yes, I recognize it. I loathe it though I know that in moderation it’s a friend. Can’t live by it, but it does have a small healthy place in the spectrum of emotions.

Every once in awhile, though, a hitchhiker slips in. There’s no way to avoid it sometimes. It happened to me recently, with one hitchhiker who had clearly never taken a shower, who had seriously unshaven legs, a wild alien look in his eyes, and absolutely no discernable communication skills. In short, he was gorgeous. He—I’m guessing even at gender here—was one of the largest and most beautiful moths I’ve ever seen, and in the middle of a hike on the land here, he was suddenly riding my pants leg and apparently quite comfortable there.

It felt magical. It didn’t feel at all like when an overly amorous dog attempts a ride on the same location. I was not only happy to give a ride in this case, I felt deeply honored. We stopped to marvel at the moth. I also felt that the long walk ahead was likely to take the moth far from home, rather than provide a valuable service. A silly feeling, really. What do I know about moth transportation and homes? I was probably just assigning human ways to an insect mind again. And it wasn’t my business, either. If a moth chooses to hitch a ride on a passing mammal, isn’t that the natural chaotic process of life and its risks? Wouldn’t I disturb the natural order by not letting it ride if it chose to?

It’s a good thing moths don’t suffer these kinds of philosophical dilemmas. If moths did philosophy, their lives would be paralyzed, like ours.

Despite our dim notions of what’s best for a moth and our right to decide that, we decided to put him on my finger so we could transfer him to a tree. He seemed equally content to be there. I stared him in the eyes for a moment—no recognition—and studied his ferociously hairy legs. Given the size of his wings, I checked the underside to make sure it didn’t say “Boeing” somewhere. I discovered that the wing spots were beautifully translucent when viewed from the underside. They looked like skylights. Now the moth was reminding me of our ceiling. I decided again that moths are better off without minds.

Anyway, I love hitchhikers. Truly I do. I love those willing to brave the adventure of the open road. I love the chance connections of life and stories told between two who will never meet again. I love that people actually dare to stop and take the ragged and broken to their next destination. They deserve their destinations as much as the rest of us do. They certainly deserve it as much as a moth. We’re all hitchhikers here, according to legend, and nothing makes me more grateful for being given another lift around the sun than a moth on my pants. Go figure.

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 29th, 2010 at 8:09 pm and is filed under Grace and Tranquility, The Sun on Your Face, Wild Grace. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.