Ants, Cicadas, and Observing the Opposites
A view from a dry riverbed in Greece…
By Cara Chang Mutert
Travel is one of those experiences that really heightens awareness. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to get hooked. Because you are choosing to be thrown into somewhat of the unknown, you are forced to live in the moment. Suddenly, you find yourself amidst new surroundings, a different culture, hearing different sounds, tastes, and smells in the air. Senses are at their peak.
During our most recent yoga retreat to Greece, we moved from the busy, vibrant city of Athens to the steep, rugged mountains of the islands where olive trees, birds, insects, and flowers abound. As the energy around me began to quiet, so did my mind.
The history of the ruins in the city inspired me intellectually, with its stories dating back to Venetians, Spaniards, and British colonization. But as we moved into less inhabited areas, I noticed my affinity is toward nature. Just as the ruins held stories, so did the rocks on the beach. Surrounded by the vast and calm blue seas, the cool breezes, and the heat of sun, time began to slow.
I caught myself marveling at the busy insects working tirelessly and cooperatively to provide for their communities. Literally like tiny soldiers, I caught myself mesmerized by the organized willingness of ant colonies, doing their work, communicating with each other, and supporting one another as they took on seemingly monumental tasks, like carrying the broken wing of another insect 10 times its size, back to their nest as a food source to help sustain their community.
The interconnectedness of life was hard to deny. I found myself talking to bees and iridescent green flying beetles that found themselves trapped in our villa, and I did my best to show them their way out through open doors. I know it sounds a bit silly, when humans with much larger brains and hearts are suffering everywhere. But still, I feel a connection with most things, when I allow myself and take the time to observe it.
When I’m steeped in a natural environment and take moments to take in all its perfectly aligned systems functioning so seamlessly in its seemingly simple yet very complex earthly existence, it’s easy to realize I am the guest. It’s a humbling reminder of how small we are. And at the same time, how powerful we can be. And what a delicate balance and slippery slope that all can be.
Upon returning to the green lushness of our midwestern landscape, I was amazed by the billowing burst of growth in the short few weeks we were gone. Coupled with the lush explosion, the hum of the cicadas (in the key E sharp, according to my mom) was hard to miss. As I strolled through my garden for the first time after our trip, I looked forward to seeing a few of these fabled cicadas. I happened upon one, and like the ants in Greece, I again found myself marveling at its uniqueness, their red eyes, the delicacy of their wings, their tangerine orange markings.
But as I continued to wander further into our fairly wild backyard, I soon began to sense the magnitude of this 17-year awakening. I glanced at the trunk of our 100-year-old oak tree and realized almost every inch of its bark was camouflaged by a very slow-moving swarm of these once amazing creatures, but now suddenly terrifying insects. As I looked more closely, my latent phobia of swarming insects kicked in, cortisol shot through my body, and I immediately went into my habitual flight response. Fists clenched, eyes closed, I walked back to the house as quickly as I could with my arms glued to my sides.
Once I returned to my perceived safety of our front porch, I exhaled deeply. Apparently, I had been holding my breath as well, maybe subconsciously thinking I might accidentally inhale one. As I caught my breath, I realized how quickly my perception of the insects had shifted from awe and wonder to fear and terror. It happened in an instant. Doesn’t take much for the brain to change directions.
In retrospect, it was interesting noticing how my brain and senses responded so differently to basically the same thing. Marching ants doing their thing. Swarms of cicadas doing theirs.
As the weeks have passed, of course, I’ve calmed down. Now I’m back to rescuing flailing cicadas who can’t seem to figure out how to flip themselves over, and crying ones who end up trapped in our dogs’ water bowl. My reactive “flight” response has eased back into a more equanimous compassionate response.
Observing our patterns of thought is in large part the practice of both mindfulness and yoga. By shifting away from the external catalyst and toward an internal focus, it allows us to learn more about ourselves.
For me, watching my own thoughts and reactions can provide endless entertainment. Moreover, it offers a welcome respite from trying to figure out why I can’t control everything. At the very least it offers a good distraction, allowing me to detach from that inability. Even better, it offers a helpful tool in learning about and managing my own ups and downs.
So, if (when) you find yourself reacting or responding in a way that causes unease in your body or mind, remember, it is possible to catch yourself before the full-blown reaction occurs to consciously make the choice to first shift out of the discomfort. This is where the self-control comes in. But with this subtle mind shift, you can once again move into a place of understanding with what is and take comfort in knowing it’s not forever. This can usher in acceptance, and even appreciation for the beauty we can discover through uncertainty and impermanence.