Worlds Within Worlds

I don't own a car, so I walk almost everywhere I go.  It isn't too big a deal because my stomping grounds consist of a tiny circle around campus.  One negative side-effect, though, is that I've developed an irrational hatred for motorists (unless I happen to be driving, of course).  I can't count the number of times I've waited on the edge of a crosswalk, not daring to put my life in the hands of... that guy who just drove by texting with his cell phone.  I have the right-of-way!  Stop so I can cross!  Sometimes I want to stand on the edge of the crosswalk and throw rocks.

Anyway, today I was waiting at a crosswalk on a particularly busy street (900 E in Provo, if you care to know).  I made it obvious that I wanted to cross, and then stood there and seethed as car after car obliviously drove by leaving trails of exhaust for me to enjoy while I waited.  After an eternity (a couple minutes, probably) everything started to bother me.  The dirty asphalt.  The drab curbs and gutters.  The endless traffic noise.  The exhaust fumes.  The longer I waiting, the more aggravated I became.

Now, I would never really do anything irresponsible or dangerous, but... for some reason I found myself  looking around for a handy little rock.  I didn't find one.  Instead, I was distracted by something much more interesting.  Ants.  There was a line of them crossing the sidewalk right at my feet.  As is probably obvious to anyone who reads this blog, I am fascinated by those little critters.  So when I saw them, I immediately forgot about crossing the road.  I stepped away from the road edge, bent down, and started to watch.

It was like they were constructing a little underground empire.  They'd emerge from a little hole in the ground next to the sidewalk carrying little pebbles and sticks, while at the same time other ants would make their way inside with pieces of foliage or little pieces of food dropped by oblivious passers-by.  They all worked so hard.  Did they even know what they were doing?  What was inside that tunnel?  Where were they getting that stuff they kept bringing inside?

I followed a line of ants leading away from their colony across the sidewalk, around a bend, and then right along the edge of a deep gutter.  Looking in, I noticed that an enterprising spider had built an intricate web right underneath the edge.  As hordes of ants passed by above, one or two would inevitably slip over the edge during the day and the spider would have a nice meal.  Was that little spider just lucky in her placement of her web?  Or did she somehow know that ants would be marching above her new lair?  I watched with mixed interest and horror as an unfortunate ant wandered a little too close to the edge, slipped, and fell to its doom.  As it scrambled to escape, the spider quickly approached and then unceremoniously ended the ant's life.  I wondered if ants were capable of feeling fear or pain.

Finished with the gutter, I looked up again to follow the line of ants and quickly discovered where they were all going - there on the edge of the sidewalk were the remains of an ice cream cone.  For a human it would have amounted to less than one bite, but to the ants it must have been a treasure trove.  I found it ironic that the person who dropped the ice cream cone must have been completely oblivious about it.  When that tiny morsel of food fell out of human interest and onto the ground, it transformed the world for those little ants.  And it transformed the world for the spider.

Observing this hidden little world also transformed my own perspective.  There, next to a busy street in Provo, I had discovered a miniature eco-system, a whole world of underground tunnels, empire-building ants, and cunning spiders.  How ironic that I would have been completely oblivious to all of this had I been able to cross the street immediately.  I looked back up at the traffic and suddenly my plight really didn't matter anymore.  Our petty inconveniences seem all-important until we realize that there are other worlds besides our own.