On cooperation
I recently had the opportunity to spend time in Flagstaff and Sedona, Arizona, for a retreat entitled Powering Your Passions, presented by Mitzi Lynton of Dare2Create and Therese Inzerillo of The Namaste Center. For the Sedona portion, our group visited the Creative Life Center, a sprawling campus nestled amid the red rocks for which Sedona is world-famous. The center provides spiritual growth and creative workshops, hosts local and national speakers, and offers all manner of music, drama, and dance performances.
As my friend and I had arrived early, I had a chance to walk around the grounds a bit. Oak Creek Canyon is at the heart of Sedona, and Oak Creek crosses a portion of the center's grounds. I spent several minutes watching a tiny lizard hang out on a rock in the middle of the languidly running creek. You'd have thought he was sunning, the way you sometimes see the little guys do in the movies, but the sky was overcast.
I walked a little further along the stone path that carried me across a bridge, over the creek — and I happened to look down and see a single red fireant. He scurried along, the way ants do. Then I spied another ant, and soon another and another — now aware that I had stumbled across a colony of the insects. I watched them all scramble randomly around a roughly 12-inch perimeter of their hole.
Watching them closely, I noticed one little guy (Why did I just automatically assume it was a male?) carrying what appeared to be a seed of some sort. Although conventional wisdom holds that ants can carry from 10 to 20 times their weight, this guy's load, while certainly bigger than his body, seemed to be more awkward to manage than particularly heavy.
As I watched, he diligently trundled it forward. The interesting thing was that there were many other ants scurrying around, and none really seemed to notice our guy (I'll call him Joe, from here on out). Suddenly, though, out of the midst of the other ants who continued to rush past Joe, one (Chris) stopped to help him.
It was difficult, at first, to tell whether the second ant's motive was to help Joe out or to steal the seed. It became clear, though, that Chris was there to offer assistance. And I wondered, as I watched, why Chris had stopped when all the others just continued on their hasty way. Did Chris (note my use of a gender-neutral name) stop to help because Chris was Joe's mate? Was it simply his (OK, I decided Chris was a male, too) job to help Joe? Or was he just a nice guy?
For a few minutes, Joe and Chris shared the burden of the seed, carrying it a little closer to the busy anthole. Suddenly, however, Joe got separated from Chris. Chris kept walking, now supporting the whole load himself, but Joe wasn't able to find him again. I think the distance separating the two ants might have been this much: _______________. But if you think about it, that's like the length of a city block to an ant.
Joe scurried in circles repeatedly, trying to locate his helpmate, but as far as I know, did not ever reconnect with Chris.
Chris, meanwhile continuing to make his way toward the anthill, encountered another helper ant, Jenna. Interestingly, it was noticeably easier for Jenna to join Chris in hoisting the seed than it had been for Chris to unite his efforts with Joe.
Together, Jenna and Chris made it to the hole and carried the seed down into their below-ground home.
As I walked away from the ant scene, I thought of the 1998 movie, A Bug's Life, and it occurred to me that it would have been much more interesting to simply follow real ants around and attach human voices to their actions.
Before our group's time at the center had ended, it had poured rain, as though a geyser had burst above us. When our group walked back across the bridge over the creek, the water that had been slowly moving eariler was now madly rushing. I wondered where the lizard had gone — and hoped not too many of Joe's fireant friends and relations had perished in the downpour.
______________________________________________
As my friend and I had arrived early, I had a chance to walk around the grounds a bit. Oak Creek Canyon is at the heart of Sedona, and Oak Creek crosses a portion of the center's grounds. I spent several minutes watching a tiny lizard hang out on a rock in the middle of the languidly running creek. You'd have thought he was sunning, the way you sometimes see the little guys do in the movies, but the sky was overcast.
I walked a little further along the stone path that carried me across a bridge, over the creek — and I happened to look down and see a single red fireant. He scurried along, the way ants do. Then I spied another ant, and soon another and another — now aware that I had stumbled across a colony of the insects. I watched them all scramble randomly around a roughly 12-inch perimeter of their hole.
Watching them closely, I noticed one little guy (Why did I just automatically assume it was a male?) carrying what appeared to be a seed of some sort. Although conventional wisdom holds that ants can carry from 10 to 20 times their weight, this guy's load, while certainly bigger than his body, seemed to be more awkward to manage than particularly heavy.
As I watched, he diligently trundled it forward. The interesting thing was that there were many other ants scurrying around, and none really seemed to notice our guy (I'll call him Joe, from here on out). Suddenly, though, out of the midst of the other ants who continued to rush past Joe, one (Chris) stopped to help him.
It was difficult, at first, to tell whether the second ant's motive was to help Joe out or to steal the seed. It became clear, though, that Chris was there to offer assistance. And I wondered, as I watched, why Chris had stopped when all the others just continued on their hasty way. Did Chris (note my use of a gender-neutral name) stop to help because Chris was Joe's mate? Was it simply his (OK, I decided Chris was a male, too) job to help Joe? Or was he just a nice guy?
For a few minutes, Joe and Chris shared the burden of the seed, carrying it a little closer to the busy anthole. Suddenly, however, Joe got separated from Chris. Chris kept walking, now supporting the whole load himself, but Joe wasn't able to find him again. I think the distance separating the two ants might have been this much: _______________. But if you think about it, that's like the length of a city block to an ant.
Joe scurried in circles repeatedly, trying to locate his helpmate, but as far as I know, did not ever reconnect with Chris.
Chris, meanwhile continuing to make his way toward the anthill, encountered another helper ant, Jenna. Interestingly, it was noticeably easier for Jenna to join Chris in hoisting the seed than it had been for Chris to unite his efforts with Joe.
Together, Jenna and Chris made it to the hole and carried the seed down into their below-ground home.
As I walked away from the ant scene, I thought of the 1998 movie, A Bug's Life, and it occurred to me that it would have been much more interesting to simply follow real ants around and attach human voices to their actions.
Before our group's time at the center had ended, it had poured rain, as though a geyser had burst above us. When our group walked back across the bridge over the creek, the water that had been slowly moving eariler was now madly rushing. I wondered where the lizard had gone — and hoped not too many of Joe's fireant friends and relations had perished in the downpour.
______________________________________________
posted by LO @ 7:47 PM
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