The Moth Radio Hour: Human + Nature
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This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Kate Tellers. A few years ago, I was walking through Brooklyn, wearing my first child in a carrier on my chest. It had just rained, and I stepped on a piece of wet newspaper and fell face forward towards the sidewalk. As my baby's tiny, perfect head careened towards the cement, my whole life flashed in front of my eyes, and then I went blank. Suddenly, we were on the ground, both crying, while a stranger helped us up.

I checked my baby. He was fine. I pulled out a baby wipe from my bag to clean up the gravel on the hand that I had wrapped around his head. It wasn't until 20 minutes later, when a cashier I was trying to pay stared open-mouthed at my hand that I realized that it was oozing with blood. I hadn't noticed. I hadn't felt it. We were saved by my natural instincts that I didn't even know that I had, reminding me that we're all more hardwired to our natural selves than we likely even realize.

In this episode, stories of humans and nature, how we coexist and how we communicate, and what happens when our natural instincts take the wheel. First up, a story from our Boston Open Mic Story Slam, where we partner with public radio station WBUR. This one's from Seth Cohen. Let's just say that the call was coming from inside the proverbial house. Here's Seth. Take your time.

I pressed my head against the glass of the window in my 30th floor office. It was the only way I could see the cargo ships heading out under the Golden Gate Bridge. I was 29 years old, and I was a brand new associate at a huge global law firm. And I was sucking on a cold sore that had erupted from my lip like the eighth wonder of the world. This thing was enormous. It cast a shadow. And the phone rings.

And it's the chairwoman of the litigation department for this entire 1,100 lawyer law firm.

And she's summoning me to her office because she wants me to work with her on a case. This woman was legendary, right? She was famous for being in the delivery room, giving birth to one of her kids, and she had a fax machine wheeled in so that she could edit a brief in between contractions. These big law firms, what they do is they hire a small number of law school graduates each year, and then kind of like the Navy SEAL selection process, they push you to the brink.

to see if you have what it takes to survive intense legal combat. And I wanted to have what it takes. Not everyone at these firms is ultra-intense and turbocharged. I was assigned a mentor by the law firm, a guy named Jack, super nice guy, doting father, and he'd survived. He'd made it through seven, eight years of this, and he was on the brink of becoming a partner.

wealth and prestige was about to be his and he'd somehow continued to be a super nice guy. It was all about making a good impression.

And I'm wondering as I'm heading to this meeting, how am I going to make a good impression when I have this cluster of cold sore blisters? So I head up to the office of this chair of the litigation department. And there I am, sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay, three lawyers I'd never met before. She says, Seth, we want to put you on this case. It's an important case. It's a major client of the firm.

"We want you to be on the team." And I said, "That's great. I'm looking forward to working with you all. What's the case about?" And she said, "It's about their market-leading treatment for cold sores." And I thought, you know, this wasn't by design. Like, they'd never met me before, right? This was just one of those funny coincidences in life, only no one was laughing, right? And I was mortified. So I begin the work on the case, and it's intense.

And, you know, what you realize is that to excel at a place like this, and to have any semblance of balance in your life, you have to be almost superhuman. And I wasn't superhuman. I was just super stressed.

Before I took this job, I might have had one cold sore a year, if that. But since taking this job, I had them all the time. And sure, it was enormously stressful. But it was also the fact that in my heart, I knew I didn't want to be a corporate lawyer. So this was like, these cold sores were like a check engine light on a car. They were telling me, something's not right.

I worked hard on this case, you know. We'd have a big hearing in court on the cold sore case and I'd show up with a cold sore. I'd go to the library to research to find an expert witness physician on herpes. And there I am at the library table stacked with books about herpes and people are walking by thinking, "I know what's wrong with that guy."

And then the chairwoman had a cocktail party at her house and she had these sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay. And of course I had a brand new cold sore. She introduced me to her husband. She said, "This is Seth. He's working with me on the cold sore case." He smiled at me with kind of concern on his face. My girlfriend at the time said, "It's a lovely house. Do you ever have time to enjoy it?"

Life went on, and my mentor, Jack, the nice guy, called me into his office one day, and he said, "I'm withdrawing myself from consideration for partnership." And I said, "Why?" And he said, "I was always leaving my house for work, at nights, on weekends, on holidays, and my toddler son started calling me 'Daddy Bye-Bye.'" And that was it for him. He was done. Well, the cold sore case settled, as they all do, and we go on to the next fight.

And I resigned from that firm after about two years. I can't say I've ever loved being a lawyer, but I've had a rewarding career. I've fought coal-fired power plants and big oil. I've fought private land grabs. And I never missed a parent-teacher conference. I didn't just go to my daughter's soccer games. I coached her team. And I've never been called Daddy Bye-Bye. And as I stand here tonight, I can tell you, I can't remember the last time I had a cold sore.

More than 20 years since the Cold Sore case, Seth continues to practice law as a civil litigator based in Santa Fe, New Mexico. To see photos of Seth in his corporate law days, as well as some of him doing things he likely wouldn't have had the time for had he stayed in that job, like coaching his daughter's soccer team and taking a recent spring break trip to the Pacific Northwest, check out themoth.org. ♪

In a moment, what happens in Berlin and an existential grizzly bear. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. What's the difference between DIY and doing it yourself? It's the difference between a part-time passion and a full-time business. Wix gives you the power to turn your passion into a moneymaker.

With a website that fits your unique vision, let your ideas flow with AI that guides you, but keeps you in the driver's seat. Manage your business from one dashboard and keep it growing with built-in marketing features. It's time to turn your daydream into your dream job. Go to Wix.com. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Kate Tellers.

Our next story comes from Liz Hansen, who told this in a Grand Slam in San Francisco, where we partnered with the public radio station KALW. A note that this story contains a non-graphic exploration of sensuality. Here's Liz. In 2016, I was 41 years old, living in San Francisco with my partner, and we weren't getting along. We had weathered three miscarriages, and...

The message that the culture gives about miscarriage is really confusing. It's at once completely taboo to evoke a dead baby, and yet there's also this kind of flavor of dismissal that makes you think you should just be able to get over it really quickly. And so I was in a lot of emotional pain and really confused about the depth of it and also not wanting to talk about it.

One of the things I did to feel better was go see a hypnotherapist and she offered to provide this healing visualization for me. So I go and it's all very relaxing. It's like in this very dark room and she's guiding me through all of these relaxing things until she prompts me to imagine a healing chamber.

and like a room that I can put myself in and what comes to mind is me naked, prone, and there's a woman behind me flogging me. Like a dominatrix is whipping my back. So at the end of the session I'm really confused.

And embarrassed, and I don't tell her about it. And I'm thinking, like, okay, I'm already in a lot of pain. And if the answer to this pain is to hire someone to inflict more pain, like, okay. So I go home, and I'm curious. And I'm also desperate to feel better. So I get online, and I'm like, okay, it should be easy to find a dominatrix in San Francisco. But what I really want is reviews. So I go to Yelp.

So I go to Yelp and there are no doms on Yelp. And I just, I forget about it. Like, it's too much work and it's weird. So over the course of the following year, the relationship ends and, like, we just kind of crumble under the weight of grief. And...

It's really sad I'm not a mom. I'm in therapy and time helps, but there are always these sneak attacks that lurk everywhere. Who knew that I was going to have a panic attack in the baby section of IKEA? Or getting an invite to a kid's birthday party can level me for days. I can't go. I don't want to go. I have to go. I can't go. Anyway.

I don't know, a few years later I'm visiting one of my brothers in Europe and he suggests we go to Berlin for a couple of days. And I'm like, "What am I gonna do in Berlin?" And I think like, "Oh, well, yeah, it's a really sexually open place. Like, if you're gonna do the thing, do the, you know, this is the place to do it." But, you know, so I don't tell him about this. This is all, you know, like my own pervy hypnosis is private still.

And so I get online and I find a dominatrix with reviews.

And what's great is that she's actually like a sex educator and she likes to work with women who are shut down and to help them. So I email her and I explain my trauma and my sadnesses and ask her like if this kind of work might be helpful. And she says, yes, absolutely. This is very courageous work. I would be happy to help you with this.

So the day comes and we're in this room that has like this giant California king-sized mattress on the floor. It's what I now call the Berlin Queen, but it's like there are, you know, all kinds of toys and implements surrounding the room. And I'm really nervous, but we chat and we come up with a plan and

it starts really mellow. It's just like a lot of breath work, just kind of like, you know, embodiment. And then she starts to kind of move my limbs around and it feels sort of like Thai massage, like someone doing yoga to your body. And I start to open up and I feel really guarded and

I chalk it up to nervousness, but then I feel like the sadness starting to come up. And I'm just like, no, you can't cry now. And I'm really pissed. I'm just like, when is this depression ever going to stop? Like, I thought this was supposed to help. And the more I'm fighting it, the more...

panicky the tears become. And she notices and she says, you know, this is totally normal with this kind of work when you're opening the body that emotions rise to the surface and you have to welcome them. And so then I just start to ugly cry. And what happens next is really remarkable. I feel like I'm this pathetic lump of a woman on the ground and she just embraces me.

with so much compassion and she starts to like kind of rock me and soothe me and I get all of this like opening and It's remarkable. I start to feel this feeling. I haven't felt in a really long time I start to feel safe in my body and with that safety comes relief and at the end I'm just in awe of how at peace I am and I tell her I

you know, ever the overachiever. I was like still really curious about this vision that I had that led me to her. And I was like, well, but I mean, like if we did more, like the pain and the stuff, would it be better? Would I heal faster, more better? And she just cuts me off. And she says words that I would never expect to hear coming out of the mouth of a dominatrix. She says, I don't think the answer to your pain is more pain. And

In that moment, I knew that I had received this big gift. And I go home, return from the trip, and I end up adopting a dog and then another dog. And now when the hard stuff arises, I try to remember, like, the answer to pain is not pain. The answer to pain is listening. Thank you.

Liz Hansen is a writer and artist based in Portland, Oregon. Her visual work includes a line of greeting cards for those traditionally unseen by Hallmark holidays, like bereaved parents on Mother's Day.

Her Miscarriage Visibility Project contains multi-genre explorations of pregnancy loss, including a reimagining of Goodnight Moon for bereaved mothers and a tight eight stand-up set, and can be found on Substack, titled The Demisery. To see a photo of the neighborhood in Berlin where this story takes place and links to The Demisery and more from Liz, check out themoth.org.

Our next story is from another one of our Boston Open Mic Story Slams. Chris Bell ponders his human reaction to a natural predator. Here's Chris. It's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep because I'm up wondering what I would do if my wife and two young kids were ever attacked by a grizzly bear. I mean, would I have the courage to stand up to this beast and just do whatever I can do to protect them?

Or would fear hijack my decisions and cause me to freeze or even worse, run away? I don't know. And that's why this scenario has bothered me, haunted me, ever since the moment I first became a father. Fortunately, there aren't any grizzly bears in our neighborhood. But there have been several break-ins and robberies.

Our landlord worked the night shift, so he installed this big fancy security system in his luxury apartment upstairs. But downstairs, in our barely basic two bedroom, I'm left to be my family's security system. So when my wife tells me she saw a mouse scurry across the kitchen floor, I see it as an opportunity to prove myself. The next day, I immediately go to the store and pick up one jar of premium organic peanut butter that's just like me.

Little chunky. And after everyone goes to sleep, I put a little bit of that peanut butter on a mousetrap and strategically place it in our kitchen. Now this night we're experiencing waves of heavy rain and wind. It looks like someone's throwing buckets of water against the window. And when the wind hits the house, you can hear the walls creak and groan. Around 11 o'clock, I'm just watching the news and pop, the electricity just goes out.

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up to a BANG! And I remember, ah, my mouse trap. So I get up out of bed wearing nothing but my boxers, flick the light switch and realize the power's still out. Then I hear it again. BANG! BANG!

So now I'm thinking the mouse must have got its tail caught in the trap and it's running around the kitchen slapping it on the walls and cabinets. So now I'm rushing down the hall in my boxers in the dark trying to get to this mouse before it tears up our kitchen. And right as I'm about to turn the corner bang, bang, bang! And I stop because that doesn't sound like a mouse. That sounds like a rat and a big one.

So I go to the pantry and grab a broom and hold it like a spear from Wakanda. Cause I know I got one shot to stab this thing before it tries to bite me. So I carefully creep around the corner and leap into the kitchen only to see my trap right where I left it untouched. Now I'm standing there wondering what's making that noise.

And from the kitchen door, by my son's bedroom, bang, bang, bang! Startled, I turn around to look through the window to see the figure of a dark shape pounding on the door. That's when I realized it wasn't a mouse, it wasn't a rat, that's the sound of someone trying to break into our apartment. And just then, my son comes out of his bedroom in his Batman pajamas.

And behind me, I hear the footsteps of my wife and daughter coming down the hall. So out of pure reflex, I turn the broom sideways and slam all my weight up against the door, trying to keep whoever wanted in out. But now I'm close enough to see that there are actually three figures pressing to get in. And they're all bigger than I am.

And when they see me, they erupt into shouting. And this causes my daughter to scream and my son to burst into tears. And at this point, my heart is beating like thunder because I'm just going to be real. I was scared. This wasn't some imaginary grizzly bear. This was real. And I knew if I couldn't keep this door shut, they would get in and possibly hurt my family. And that thought terrified me. But it was the feeling of fear that told my body, you need to do something.

So I closed my eyes and pressed my nose up against the window so they could see my face clearly. And I did the one thing that I felt would turn these intruders away. I grit my teeth and I growled. But I growled like I was delivering a contract written in my own blood that said if they dared cross this threshold, I will show them exactly how ferocious a protective parent can be.

And when I opened my eyes, the figures were now completely still. And the sound, their shouting was replaced by the soft sound of rain. But now the figure up front revealed that he had his arms fully extended, revealing that there was only a thin pane of glass in between my chest and his gun. And when I saw this, I just felt like I was frozen. And that's when I heard, Sir, drop the stick!

followed by my wife. "Babe, I think it's the police." Five minutes later, three very wet police officers are standing in the center of our kitchen. Turns out the wind from the storm shook the house so bad that it triggered one of the motion detectors from my landlord's security system upstairs. This sent a silent alarm to the police station. So when they responded, started pounding on doors and looking through windows,

They saw me standing in the kitchen, in my boxers, holding a broom as a weapon. They thought they stumbled across a domestic situation. Eventually, I got to explain my side of the story. And after I did, the officer who pulled the service weapon stepped up and said, So you mean to tell me I almost shot you because you was trying to catch a mouse with a broom?

Don't you know all you need is peanut butter and a trap? My wife is not going to believe this. 15 years later, my young kids are now college students. And believe it or not, we have never been attacked by a grizzly bear. But if you were to ask me the same question, what would I do? I'll still be real and say, I don't know.

But after the night I tried to protect my family from a mouse, I am a little bit more certain that I wouldn't just run away. Thank you. Chris Bell is a storyteller from Boston who finds inspiration in everyday moments as a husband and father. Whether sharing a personal story or taking long walks through the city, Chris connects with life's simple joys, especially when pizza is involved. Shout out to pizza. ♪

To see photos of Chris and his family and that kitchen door and window, check out themoth.org. In a moment, a story that takes us into the wild world of Airbnb reviews when The Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Follow and listen to Fly on the Wall everywhere you get your podcasts.

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Kate Tellers. Coming up, one more from our Story Slam series. Mejdi Ferris told this in Detroit, where we partnered with public radio station WDET. Here's Mejdi. My backyard consists of 40 feet of grass, two swans, and a small lake.

And these swans are both strikingly beautiful and strikingly hostile. They're not my favorite. I like the mallards and the turtles way more than the swans. My least favorite wild animal on the property are the Airbnb guests. When we moved to DC, we rented out the place. Our first bad review was a nightmare come true. A swan hissed at my daughter and we just didn't feel safe.

Two stars. After that, our reservation rate plummeted. My chances of becoming a super host went down the drain. I'm petty. And my inbox filled up with messages and questions about the swan that I didn't have answers for. So these swans have been there long before me, but they've become a threat to my guests and, more importantly, my income. So I called the city and received some surprising advice. Coyote urine!

Excuse me? You'll scare him away if you cover your yard with coyote urine. How am I supposed to do that? Do I give a coyote a Bud Light and grab it and walk backwards? I mean, how do I do this? I'm from the suburbs. Now I'm online on Amazon reading reviews for coyote urine. He was like, make sure you do it before they nest.

So I ordered it online, it shipped in like three days. I'm reading all these reviews, and my favorite review by the way, "Bought it to repel skunks, smells way worse than skunks." Yeah, that's what I'm dealing with. I didn't even know which one to buy, so I just sorted the results by newest arrivals and purchased the top one.

Not to sound bougie or anything, but I only buy the freshest coyotes you rinse. When the package arrived, the box was wet. It was leaking. It was damaged in transit. I could smell it from 50 feet away. This poor EPS driver had to drive around with it all day long. Anyways, I didn't have time to return it because it was nesting season. This had to be done now. The time had come. So I suited up for battle.

I felt like Rambo. If my neighbors were outside that day, they would have saw me wearing six garbage bags, spraying urine everywhere, going, "You made me this way! You drew first blood!" Which wasn't a good idea because the wind from the lake kept blowing it right back into my face. I couldn't wipe it off, so I had to just let it sit there on my face like pee-pee tears.

I called the city again. Yeah, your plan didn't work. The swan is still here and I have coyote urine on my tonsils. Help me! They said you have the right to shoot the swan. That's tempting. But I'm not gonna shoot a swan over an Airbnb review. They said swans are considered an invasive species by law. But the swan was here before me. I feel like I'm the invasive species.

I said, "Swans can be aggressive and hostile when it comes to their territory." I said, "That's because I'm trying to displace them from their land." You know, I'm trying to remove them from their land. And he said, "But technically the land is yours." I said, "I don't have time to turn this into a Palestine-Israeli conflict right now." I hung up. You give bad advice. I changed my intentions. Rather than finding a way to get rid of them, I found a way to include them. I updated the listing.

put photos of the swans, fun facts about the swans, like how they mate for life. Come visit Swan Lake. After that, you know, a lot of people were scared off by those changes, but I attracted all these nature lovers who know how to keep their distance from a swan. So now business is good, the swans are happy, so treat God's creatures with respect, even if your government tells you not to. That was Meshti Farris.

Mejni is a stand-up comedian and two-time Moth Grand Slam champion. He is not, however, the proprietor of that Airbnb anymore. So if his story inspired you to hang out with a bevy, bank, or herd of swans, you'll have to find them somewhere else.

Fun fact, I'm a part of a hundred strong Facebook group of extraordinary mothers. Some I've known since my early 20s doing comedy below a grocery store in New York City. But the majority of these humans I've never actually met in person.

We're all connected by one of the most natural acts in the world. We all procreate it. But what started as a group to support each other through that has grown into a community with piles of subgroups on almost any topic imaginable. They will find you a waxer in West Hollywood and a sitter in Sacramento. These virtually connected mothers provide.

So when I knew I was going to Portland, Maine, I put out my bat signal. Enter our final storyteller, Rebecca Falzano, who told this again in Wilmington, Delaware at the Grand Opera House. I grew up in a backyard filled with trees.

maple trees, oak trees, elm trees, birch trees. There was this one year where my mom decided she didn't want jewelry anymore for Mother's Day. She wanted trees. And so my dad got to planting them all over the yard. And then he built my brother and I a tree house so that we could sit inside and look up at the leaves. So it was not such a stretch that when it was time for me to find my own home with my own family, that I would gravitate towards one with some pretty epic trees.

The house my husband and I found was built in 1825, a classic Maine farmhouse. Loads of history and charm, character, and loads of things that needed to be fixed. It had these two incredible trees that were just as old as the house, so a couple centuries old. The first one was in the front yard. It was a massive, old, beautiful beech tree.

The canopy of this tree was so wide that even though we had driven by this house hundreds of times, we had never noticed the house because the tree was just so huge. You couldn't even fit your arms around the trunk. And then in the backyard, there was this incredible apple tree, also really old. This tree had a mystique about it. It was craggy and twisted. It just sort of held court over the backyard.

We learned that the house and the yard had been lovingly cared for and tended to by the same family for over 50 years. The couple was now in their 80s. They had planted gardens. They had farmed the land. They had built additions. They had fixed things. They had devoted their lives to taking care of this space. And it was clear on the day that we did the walkthrough with them, they were pointing out all the things in the house that they were going to leave behind for us.

it was clear that this house had become part of their family. And it was clear that them leaving it was not so much a choice, but a necessity. As we pulled out of the driveway that day, I looked in the rearview mirror, and I saw the older man start to cry. And when we were out of sight, I started to cry too. I was thinking about my own dad. He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease not long ago.

And I was thinking about all the ways that he had taken care of my parents' house over many decades, and their yard, fixing things, building things, growing things. And I was thinking about how sad it is to spend your life working towards something, taking pride in it, and then having to leave it behind before you were ready. It broke my heart. A few days after we moved into the house, we found a curious package and a letter from the old couple

addressed to us. The package had a bag of tobacco in it and the letter said that the woman who had lived in the house before the old couple was convinced that the apple tree in the backyard was haunted. She had had some really weird experiences with this tree and as a result, the older couple would sprinkle tobacco on the roots of this tree every time they would have it pruned as sort of an offering.

And so they were leaving the tobacco to us so that we could carry on this tradition. It's not lost on me that they waited until after we signed on the dotted line to disclose a possible haunting in the backyard. But it was also 10 days before Christmas at the height of a pandemic. And we had just moved our family with two young children. And so I just could not take on one more thing, especially a haunted tree in the backyard.

So I tossed the tobacco and the letter aside, and I didn't really think twice about it. That spring, when the ground thawed, we had a fence installed. The house sits on a busy intersection on a busy road, and we wanted to keep the dog and the kids all contained. When the fence company came, they did a walkthrough with us, and they stopped at the apple tree.

They said, "We are so sorry, but we can't fence in this tree. There's a steep slope behind it that goes into a ravine, and so it wouldn't be safe. We're going to have to place the fence between the tree and your yard." I was devastated. I wanted the tree to be part of our yard. But we compromised and had them install a gate so that we could go visit the tree. The fence was finished on a Friday. On a Saturday morning, my daughter, who was eight at the time, was playing in the living room.

She looked out the window and said to my husband, Hey, Dad, who's that guy standing under the apple tree? My husband said, What? What guy? What are you talking about? She said, Dad, the guy in the blue cloak with a long white beard. My husband saw no one. I hear this several rooms away and immediately panic. I'm thinking back to the letter and the tobacco and how I've just carelessly forgotten about it.

I try not to panic too hard. My husband and I don't speak about this for a couple of days until my daughter brings it up again and says, "Did you guys ever find out who that guy was under the tree?" At this point, we do what any elder millennials would do, and we take this to the group chat. We text our friends, "SOS, possible haunted apple tree?" Their replies start coming in immediately.

One friend finds this hilarious and starts sending us memes of Merlin the wizard who wears a blue cloak and has a long beard. Another friend has done a deep dive into ancient literature and has found a loosely connected wizard figure and trees. And then a third friend has taken this very seriously. She's consulted a spiritual guide on our behalf.

who has told us that the tree feels othered by the fence and that what my daughter saw was a warning and we would need to make amends immediately. So of course this is all my fault. And I decide I need to take matters into my own hands, quite literally. So I walk to the backyard to have a conversation with my tree. I put my hand on the trunk and I say, "I'm sorry."

You have been here so much longer than us. And I promise you that as long as I'm here, I will take care of you. And you're part of our family now. As I take my hand off the tree, I feel this energy course through my body from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head, and I proceed to vomit. Now, I am not a puker. With the exception of my two pregnancies, I do not have a nervous stomach.

And so I am shocked. And I text my friend, the friend with the spiritual connection. She says, I'm on my way. I'm bringing supplies. So she shows up. She's purchased some tobacco. She's brought some crystals, just for good measure. I've gathered some grass clippings and some flower petals from the yard. And we make our offerings to the apple tree. We say a few words. And the tree seems at peace. There's no more weird sightings or...

anything unusual happening. In that spring, the tree bloomed the most beautiful pink confetti blossoms, and all is well with that tree. A few months later, my thoughts turned to the other old tree in my life, the beech tree out front. There was this one night where I couldn't shake the feeling that something awful was going to happen to that tree. There was no reason for me to feel this way. There was no rain or wind or storm or anything. But I was convinced that

that something was going to happen to this tree. And it wasn't going to be good. At 5:00 a.m. that night, my husband and I woke up to a giant crash and a thud. The massive beech tree out front had split in half. It narrowly missed our house. It took out a power line. Luckily, no one was hurt. But I was devastated. This tree that I loved so much was broken in two. But more than that, I was terrified.

Because something was going on with me and these trees, and I couldn't explain it. It made no sense to me. But I vowed right then and there that if these trees were trying to tell me something, I was going to have to learn how to listen. My premonition about the beech tree was spot on. But I couldn't have been prepared for what happened next, which was that I would get the call from my mom that my dad was at the end of his battle with Alzheimer's.

I would have to drive to upstate New York from Maine to say goodbye. Losing a parent is impossible. And everywhere I looked, inside and outside the house that they've lived in for 50 years, I saw evidence of my dad's decline. A couple weeks before he died, a tree had fallen in their backyard. And in all of our grieving and making arrangements, we had just left it there. We didn't have time to take care of it.

And a couple months later, I was back in upstate New York in my childhood backyard with my own kids, playing baseball near where my dad taught me how to throw a ball, near that tree house he had built us and all the trees he had planted. And I noticed the tree, and the grief washed over me. I missed my dad.

He would never have let this tree just sit here for this long. He would have cleaned it up immediately. He would have chopped up the wood and made neat piles of firewood for that winter. He would have maybe used the wood to build something. Better yet, he would have noticed that the tree was at risk of falling and he would have done something to shore it up, to prevent it from falling in the first place, because that's just who he was. And I, in all of this grief, had forgotten my promise to listen to the trees.

So I went up to this tree to get a closer look, and as I approached it, I realized something that I was not expecting. This tree that had been lying there dead, forgotten, in the middle of winter for months, was actually somehow blossoming the first tiny blooms of spring. Thank you. applause

Rebecca Falzano is a writer and poet living in Maine. After spending more than a decade as a home design magazine editor, she now lives in a 200-year-old house with 200-year-old trees. I recently chatted with Rebecca to get an update on all things trees. Obviously, I needed an update on Merle, short for Merlin, you'll remember.

So the summer after my dad died, I received a call from the woman who lived in the house before us. And as soon as I saw her name on my phone, I knew exactly why she was calling. I just felt in my heart what this call was about. And her husband had died.

And she wanted to know if she and her family could come and sprinkle his ashes on the apple tree that he had loved so much. And it turns out that he had died actually just a few weeks before my dad died. So I couldn't say yes fast enough to her. I was just so happy and honored to facilitate this reunion and just so touched that she had reached out. And so, yeah.

That happened and it was it was lovely. I felt just so so glad that he came home in April. We had a snowstorm. And so the thing about, you know, an April snowstorm is that the trees have buds and leaves that are starting to. So the branches are heavy and that with the heavy, wet snow combined with the ice from the storm a couple of weeks ago was too much for a lot of the trees branches to bear.

And so we looked out after this second storm and saw that the tree had fallen over and had taken out a section of the fence in its final act of poetic justice. And I was so devastated. I mean,

I got sympathy cards, friends sent flowers, people came to pay their respects. It was just, it was like a death. It really was like a death. Listeners, do not despair. Upon a closer look, only half of Merle fell over. The other half remains and blooms as strong as ever. Speaking of blooms, I asked Rebecca about that moment at the end of her story where she sees flowers on the tree she thought had died in her father's backyard.

I think when I saw that that tree was actually in bloom, it was, I mean, first of all, it was a surprise. I thought it was kind of long gone. I had sort of just written it off as debris in the yard. And when I saw that it was blooming, it was just like, gosh, these trees know what to do. Like they are just these trees.

they're just such smart beings. They know how to survive. They know what they need. They have a schedule. They, they know when to bloom. They know when to shut down. They know when to and how to communicate amongst each other. They have this beautifully orchestrated network of communication. Yeah. They can tell each other when, you know, you know, pests are coming or storms are coming. And it's just, it's incredible. And I think that,

If anything, in that moment in the backyard, it caused me to slow down to stop and to pay attention, which is what I needed. I needed to just be present. I needed to just see this beautiful moment, this moment.

this tiny piece of hope when I was feeling so sad. And, you know, I'm not a super religious person, although I was raised Catholic. I am, you know, no longer practicing Catholic like so many of us. And I, so, you know, believing in heaven and God and all of that, but I, in that moment, felt something spiritual happen. ♪

To see photos of Merle the tree, as well as our other storytellers interacting with nature, go to themoth.org. While you're there, have you ever felt like you have a story that you'd like to tell us? It might be about angry swans or the time your body surprised you. If so, you can pitch us a story right on our site or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-MOTH. ♪

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. Listen to your body. Listen to the trees. Listen to the moth.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Kate Tellers, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Ureña.

Mall stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Adrian Legge, Haruomi Hosono, The Cactus Channel, Renaud Garcia-Fons, Keith Mansfield, Peter Tchaikovsky, the London Symphony Orchestra, and Frederik Lundberg.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, which we always hope you will, and to learn more about The Moth, go to our website, themoth.org.