Human Nature

I have spent 52 years as a bumbling human being, so it should come as no surprise that I give human attributes to things that are not human.  It is, after all,  the measuring stick I know best.

And so it was that I held my breath for nearly 20 minutes the other morning, watching a spider cling furiously to our windshield as Mark and I headed to Pioneers Park for a little walkabout.  From the moment we pulled out of our garage and I caught sight of him (nor do I hesitate to apply gender, either, despite having not one bit of evidence to back it up), I felt bad.  I felt bad because we were taking him from the only world he knows, even if that world is a clunky, small two-car garage filled with bikes and old skateboards.  I felt bad because, at any moment, despite my careful driving, he could be unhinged from our windshield and violently hurtled into the scary, bigger world, where, no doubt, he would die a horrible death.

But I also felt hopeful.  I was hopeful that, if he could just hang on, he'd end up at a much more interesting juncture than a 3-bedroom house on Woods Avenue.  And so it was that, by the time we pulled into the Nature Center's parking lot, I was able to nudge my little arachnid friend into a fine swath of prairie, where, I imagine, he is impressing the myriad spider ladies with tales of great derring-do.

I see those same human qualities when I watch Finn interact with my family.  Just this morning, I was certain that Finn's heart had grown too big for his scraggly chest, so full of love was he as he nudged his wet nose into Allison's sleepy face.  What a wonderful thing it would be to have a tail that expresses emotion, I thought, as I watched him wag his way into Allison's grudging heart, where he won her over with sniffs and licks and gentle pawing.

What's most ironic about my willingness to give human traits to things that are not human, though,  is the fact that my interactions with these non humans invariably end up making me more human.

How is that possible?

I suppose the more accurate question is:  How is it not possible that our interaction with things that are not human inevitably leave us fuller, more alive?

The danger of a human-centric approach to this life is that, if taken to the extreme, it leaves us believing we are, somehow, the top of the pyramid, the being to which all other beings bow.  Spend a moment with the food pyramid, though, and we are quickly reminded that the things that end up on the top of that pyramid are best enjoyed in moderation.  No life is lived well or long if we only seek out the things that reside within the top of that pyramid. 

Hey, I've got nothing against humans.  I am one, after all.  But I also have nothing against all the other things in this world that wake each day with beating hearts, with fears and hopes, with the desire to see one more sunset and to wake again the next morning to yet another chapter. 

And I'm pretty sure that--whether or not I give them human attributes--they have the potential to make me something more just by being in this world.