It’s this business of thinking we are somehow separate from the other living things around us that gets human beings into trouble. Yes, yes, I know: you are you and I am me. Sort of. And that’s where the problem begins.
The lines are getting blurred for me. I know this is because I spend too much
time--almost all of my time--outdoors. I
see the ground crawling with tiny creatures, and a tree grows out of the
ground. Or maybe it’s a rock jutting out
of the crawling ground. And on both
objects there is moss growing. On the
moss, there is lichen. On the lichen,
there are insects. On the insects, there
are bacteria. Everywhere there are
animals--animals living on plants and trees, animals living on each other. Plants and fungi, too--everywhere living on
top of or underneath or even inside of everything else. And we breathe and trade the air back and
forth, back and forth, with the animals and the plants. It’s like the whole world is humming,
vibrating, and this is because everything--everything--is alive!
 |
| Just one being. |
But then there’s us.
I am me and you are you. Fine,
you say, we’re part of the air, part of the plants, part of the animals. But . . . that homeless guy at the end of the
street can’t be part of us, or vice versa.
Yet he’s part of the air, part of the plants, part of the animals, too. When you live in manmade things, it’s easy
(and convenient) to see everything as separate, but I don’t live that way.
Sometimes I wonder about this flesh-coated skeleton in which
I reside. If I close my eyes and listen
intently, I can hear the humming and whistling and flowing going on inside
me. I can hear the microcosm within that
mimics the macrocosm without, and I can know that it is all really the same
stuff. If I pay attention to my entire
field of vision, especially the peripheries, I can see the two little openings
in my animated frame by which I witness the world.
The lines are definitely getting blurred. I’m not sure where I end and everything else
begins.
