Ants

Leave me on uninterrupted countryside

A reminder that the world needs nothing from me to thrive

A morning full of angst and guilt. I went to walk out my worries. I felt pulling all over me,

the obligatory tugs of relationships and society, asking me to do this and that in every particular

way. My needs were unmet. I felt unrest, the very specific feeling of being bound and

energized. I went to walk. My parents live in a scrubby, mountainous landscape covered in

suburban neighborhoods and intersected by gravelly paths and dog parks. Still, the trees stand

proud amidst the clatter of pavement and rubber soled shoes. The soft pastel and green brush

sprouts through every soiled crack in the ground, big or small. It is so beautiful I want to cry.

And so I walk, through the little neighborhoods, and down the streets. I decide to not

make any decisions about my grief. I watch the petals of the trees dance to the ground and the

birds taking off from fenceposts, flying around. I follow a woodpecker for a bit, listening to their

soft and steady rhythm. I follow them into a little wooded area, stepping on twigs and soft

earth. I feel alive and connected. The natural world unfolds in front of me, practically breathing.

Everything is living.

On the sidewalk moving towards my unknown destination, I spot ants, red and plenty. I

lean in closer to observe their small bodies. They are red harvester ants: big heads and small

little bodies. I wonder what they have to teach me. It occurs to me suddenly that they can and

will exist without me, that they carry on in their communities together, not needing any of my

help. The revelation releases me into a sense of incredulous joy and peace. I watched how they

lived and worked together briefly, marveling at their diligence and numbers, remembering how

they can carry many times their weight on their backs, thinking about how they build these

incredible structures for each other to live in.

I have a deep desire to live wildly in nature again. To be a little dirtier, a little simpler, a

little closer to the dirt. In my heart, I imagine all of us living somewhere more simply, mostly

without money and the din of commercial enterprises. I want to live away from the hustle of

transactions and exchanges, closer to the growing intimacy of relationships and a gentle quiet.

I’ve become resentful of cars and tall buildings, and I have a particular bitterness towards

asphalt and concrete. It’s become a symbol of human lust and greed. The way that the cold,

hard slabs of stone sprawl across the earth has begun to feel unnatural. I ask myself who am I

and what are we? I look down at the ant hill and its industrious inhabitants.

It occurs to me that we are very much like ants, building our cities with wet stones

above ground. I am reminded that we are a part of nature; I am a part of the Earth. I feel the

resentment temporarily lift as I lean into this truth. When I pull out to see the whole thing, the

entire picture, I can see how human I am. And how earthly humans are. We are always building,

always together, even when it doesn’t feel like it. We are always feeding each other, always

taking and giving, always breathing, always dying, always connected. It’s the present feeling

again. I can feel my heart breaking. Love is an opening. We are temporary.

I sit in a clearing. I have stopped walking. I look out to a cluster of trees and brush and

birds. The idyllic scene takes my breath away. I sit in silence for a while, worshipping the

splendor in front of me. I feel my heart fill and quicken with questions. The desperation feeling

money gives me overtakes me. They respond “what are you feeding your community?” I am

overcome with my humanity. Money is such a human thing. A way that I show you I care and

value what you feed me.

What am I feeding my community?