Ants, not AI, helped write this article
My digital task list reminded me today that my monthly column was due. “Ugh,” I thought. “I have too much to do. And I have no idea what to write about.” This was one of several tasks that, due to a short week on account of a conference I’m signed up for that will eat three working days, I don’t know how to make time for. But a deadline is a deadline.
So I sat at my desk and stared at that infuriating cursor flashing at me. Minutes ticked by. Inspiration would not be found there.
I took my laptop outside and sat on one of the benches built into the ADA ramp at the back of the nature center. In the shade, the heat wasn’t bad…yet. Better get this thing written before it gets too sweaty.
More minutes ticked by and I caught myself watching ants crawling around on the deck beneath my feet. Then a ladybug on the railing next to me. Then some sort of weird looking caterpillar with these spiky things on its back crawled by, doing whatever caterpillars do on a Monday morning in the heat of summer.
Senses sharpening, I heard the cicadas. The constant sound had been there all along, but it was lost to me until just then. Simply the sound of late summer, unnoticed like the hum of the air conditioning unit chugging away below me.
Awareness. That’s what I was missing. That’s what we all miss sometimes. And when it returns, it can feel profound. And I know of no better setting to awaken it than the outdoors.
I became aware of an entire world around me. Ants and caterpillars and cicadas living life. I noticed new leaves had fallen on the deck from the walnut tree that shaded me. They were yellow. It’s too early for that, I thought. Fall is a ways off yet. But upon closer inspection, I noticed the tree had a few yellow leaves here and there. Just individual leaves. Why, I wondered. Had insects damaged them? Storms? Why those particular leaves on those particular branches, when the ones immediately adjacent seemed to be just fine?
Then the ladybug returned. Not actually a ladybug, but one of those Asian lady beetles. The ones that are more orange than red and which arrive in droves and stink up country homes and nature centers in the fall and early winter. But here was a solitary individual poking around on the deck railing. No others in sight. Why? Where are its brethren? Is this just the scout looking for ways into the building so it can lead the way for thousands of others to fill our window sills and light fixtures come fall? If so, how does it communicate that to so many others? If not, how do they all find a way in? And again, why is this one here all by itself?
I count at least two, probably three different species of ants. The big black ones, the small reddish brown ones, and another medium sized dark brown kind that may or may not just be smaller versions of the big black ones. Repeatedly, some would cross paths with the lady beetle, but never did they collide or interact, near as I can tell. I wonder what they think of each other. Watching both, I sense an indifference. A “live and let live” approach to each other. Ultimately, both end up sharing the bench with me but neither crawls on me. I wonder if they recognize me as another living creature and regard me with the same “let it be” indifference.
I feel like there’s a lesson there. A universal truth that other species abide by that our screens and air conditioners have caused us to forget but which a trip outdoors can help us remember.
I think back to my weekend, most of it spent on or literally in the river. I remember commenting on the minnows intent on giving me a pedicure as I stood knee deep in water at the sandbar. No indifference there. They were tenacious.
Does my “live and let live” theory fall apart in that context? Maybe. But maybe not. To live is to eat. I’m not food to ants and lady beetles. But to minnows, apparently so. Maybe not me, per se. But the dead skin on my toes? Definitely. Aquatic life, it appears, is less discerning when it comes to lunch.
The caterpillar has returned. Or maybe it’s another one. I watch it with fascination and am tempted to grab my digital device, take a picture, and let the machines that now contain the entirety of human knowledge churn away, revealing to me its name and life history, all within seconds. But I don’t. There’s value in wonder and for now, I don’t need details.
This foray outside has lasted maybe an hour, during which I penned this entire article and cultivated a sense of awareness and wonder that I didn’t realize I needed so badly to kick off a busy week. I wonder how much better off we’d all be if we spent a little more time outside, learning from ants.
My revelry is broken by the arrival of the department’s van. Staff returning from an errand. And I’m reminded of my task list. And lunch. After all, to live is to eat, and I’m hungry.
Comments
Post a Comment