our place in nature

Last night I was watching episodes of "Planet Earth" on DVD. In case you don't know, I'm an absolute nerd about nature shows, and Planet Earth is just about the best thing to happen to my TV set since the New Kids on the Block concert was televised live in 4th grade (I had a big sleepover party to watch it). So as I was watching this amazing nature show, I was struck over and over by the parallels between our lives and so many hidden aspects of nature. I will list several here, along with the questions they inspired in me.

1. Some animals in remote parts of the world live their entire lives without ever seeing a human. How must that affect them? What would they do with a human if one ever approached? They probably wouldn't know enough to be afraid. Do they think they're at the top of the food chain? Why does that somehow feel sad to me? It makes me think of how many species I will live my whole life and never see. Do I need to see them for them to be real, worthwhile? Do they need to see me?

2. Cicadas emerge from underground every 17 years, filling the forest with their billions (yes, billions) of clicking, delicate wings. Where do they go in between? Are they alive underground? If so, are they hibernating? Do they exist in a sort of egg or larvae state for that long? Do they just take 17 years to grow? If so, how long does it take us to grow enough to use our wings? Do we know? How do the cicadas know exactly the right moment to emerge again? And what's fascinating is that as soon as they emerge, they climb a tree and shed their exoskeleton, as though they've just been waiting, pining to break free from that crispy, brown prison.
I remember collecting cicada shells as a kid in West Virginia. I was enraptured with the look of them - the eye bulges still so intact, the little hairs on the legs still sticking straight out, the neat slit straight down the back where the real creature had escaped. Do we leave little shells of ourselves lying around? If you go back to Paris, will you find a little shell of me there, along the Seine, with a wine bottle in my hand and a smile on my face, gazing at the Eiffel Tower at dusk? If you return to Lock Ridge Furnace on the afternoon of August 6th, 2005, will you see a shell of me in a long, white dress, holding my Dad's hand, bubbling over with tears at the walk I was about to take? Will there be a tidy slit down my back where I had crawled out?

3. When bucks spar, they don't fight until the bloody end like many male animals; eventually, one just walks away. One just gives the hell up. How do they know when it's over? How do they know when this battle is no longer worth fighting? How are they so much smarter than us that they know when self-preservation needs to be valued above pride?

4. What in the world is up with annuals? I will never understand how plants can come back year after year without being replanted. They live fully all summer long, turning their little faces up to the warmth of the sun, reaching tall and proud. Then they fold themselves up neatly and tuck themselves back into the earth from which they emerged. Now they slumber all winter. Again, just like the cicadas, are they still alive underground? Is it just a seed? Just a root? How can they tell when spring has broken and it's safe to push through the earth one more time? What fortitude they have! What unrelenting determination to live! Nothing can stop them from cracking through that frozen earth and reaching skyward year after year after year. Are we annuals or perennials? How many seasons do we get to live?