an ant on a great big hill

on being here first and there whenever

“Allen and Clive on the Hill” Lisa Stickley

Nearly every morning this summer, my mother and I would sit on our back patio, shaded by towering maple trees with long, drooping branches that tend to graze the tops of our heads.

We sit and enjoy breakfast, tea, conversation, or books on an old wicker sofa that leaves hatch marks on the backs of our thighs and calves, and we talk about life, about God, we laugh, ask questions, and embrace silence.

The quiet of the suburbs where we live lets us observe the singing of birds, scampering rabbits in the bushes, leaves rustling in the wind, and almost every time without fail, the hum of lawn mowers—someone is always mowing their damn lawn. As the sun creeps through pockets of the rustling leaves on trees, warmth dances on our backs.

We like to watch the bugs. Ladybugs often trail along the arms of the sofa(bringing good luck i hope), monarchs will visit, occasionally dragonflies will hover by, and the buzz of the flies and bees, which never cease to startle me, are constantly present. Our favorite to watch, though, are the ants. It's interesting to see how they quickly scurry, carrying loads ten times their size or scaling structures they can hardly see.

'Where is he even going?' we'd ask each other, wondering how they even manage to find their way back to their homes after a long day of traveling through every crack and crevasse of our yard. But seeing how much determination and intention is in every small step they take, it’s clear they know exactly where they’re heading.

One particular time, a small ant made its way up from the ground to my mother's knee; she flicked off the tiny dot, and it continued on its route. The little ant had no clue what it was even standing on, no clue that it was scaling the leg of a person, no clue it wasn't even standing on earth anymore. Yet, its focus remained and it confidently continued its climb.

Ants can only see directly what's in front of them. They can't look up and notice the hill on which they stand. Now, I don't know how great ants' eyesight is, but from the brief Google search I did, it's not very good (they mostly rely on their senses). They trust where their senses lead them, they trust the age-old process of one foot in front of the other, and most importantly, they have faith despite not knowing where they stand.

right here right now

I remembered ants being mentioned somewhere in the Bible, so I Googled 'What does the Bible say about ants?' and Proverbs said, 'Go to the ant, consider its ways and be wise. It has no commander, no overseer, or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.’ They work hard now, in the present, but always in preparation for their future. What they can bring to the harvest depends on what they gather in the summer, reaping future rewards means pouring into the now.

To me the future has always felt way more romantic than the present and way more hopeful than the past. The future is whatever you want it to be, which excites a bleak present and comforts a troubled past. When I was a little younger, the future used to feel like a ticket free, an endless waterfall of possibility, and a way to escape the monotony of my day to day. But what they don't tell you is that the older you get, the more years you add, the more the 'futures' you once dreamed about catch up to you. I've seen my dreams of being a teen and young adult play out, things I've wanted received, experiences I've sought after attained. But while spending my youth clouding my head with dreams of the future, in a way I forgot to savor those years, and it still never prepared me for what experiencing the real thing would be like.

Don't get me wrong; I'm nothing if not a dreamer. I think dreams are a beautiful thing; they keep us childlike, inspired, and filled with wonder—but it's still possible to dream with your feet on the ground.

I'm learning to love where I am in the present, seeking genuine joy in each passing moment. I'm learning to focus on, or at least pay more attention to, what's directly in front of me, like an ant on a great big hill, unafraid of what I might be standing on, confidently trekking on.