There are not many of them left - the old-growth maple trees that exude ancient knowing, bark as wrinkly and deep as a great grandmother. Even the black ants are bigger, slower, gentler, who travel up and down the giant. I’m not sure what they are doing making such a long journey, but when thousands upon millions of your ancestors have walked the same vertical path, there’s no rush.
“Did you know the West coast volcanic activity is increasing?”
“I suddenly felt relieved when you said that,” she responded, visibly relaxed like the forest around her.
We had been talking about finances as we entered the wood, feeling the weight of invisible burdens that rarely let up.
The weekly gruel of the monetary climb towered like grandmother tree the past week, suddenly vaporizing with the remembrance of mortality.
Two ants - one climbing, the other descending - met face to face and touched antennas. The one climbing and moving more quickly, began to caress the legs then back of the other, moving his feelers gently and thoroughly across her golden yellow fuzz as she stood motionless.
I saw that she was missing a leg, perhaps recently handicapped, probably in a lot of pain.
Another ant approached and touched her antenna, paused with her, then continued on his way.
Time enough to comfort the broken.
She woke from long stillness and continued down, still slowly, knowing her mortality yet also the care of her people in a harsh jungle.
We walked on, removed our shoes at the creek and stood at the top of the waterfall.
Our lives are a rushing over a waterfall before we crash back to earth, perfectly, and the time in between is a dance between beauty and death.
May I walk quietly enough to see you in everything.
