How small are we to believe we are any bigger than the ant, restrained as we are in our belted psychology of belief thinking because we are what we are we have the right to trample, for we do trample, upon the lesser creatures (humans included).

How small are we to believe we are anything other than oil on the surface of life’s pond where we are different from the tree, the mountain, the wind, the elephant or the ant.

How small are we, how insignificant compared to the simpleness of an elephant’s soul, the intricate beauty of a petal’s unfurling, the deep touch of a snowflake’s silence, or the magnificent strength of an ant’s gift.

How small are we, when stained and shamed (as T. E. Lawrence’s wisdom says) into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars, for we are seedling soil beneath an ant’s belly looking up searching for a chink of light from one of those silent stars.

How small are we, looking for a light to show us the way when if we were to look within for the light we were born with, the light of essential being, the light of truth in who we are, of a belief in us as simple beings we would see how we are, each of us, one beautiful person who is no bigger than the ant, who is no bigger than one’s self who is one beautiful speck of life.

How small are we
to believe
we are any bigger
than the ant.