Go to the ant, you sluggard, consider her ways and be wise. 

So exhorts the ancient wisdom of Proverbs.  In recent days, we have taken this wisdom to heart, though we did not, in fact, go to the ants; they came to us - via First Class mail, no less.  While receiving ants through the post is probably not what the originator of this ancient advice had in mind, still the effect is the same.  Since our small colony of Western Harvester ants (scientific name: Pogonomyrmex) came to us and have been deeded prime real estate on our kitchen counter, we all can't help but go to them -again and again and again.

The ant farm was Corin's idea - the thing he picked out from the toy store with some Christmas money.  I believe I tried to steer him to some other options ("Wouldn't you like this nice 'grow your own crystal garden?'" "Hey, this kaleidoscope is fantastic."), but he held firm.  As he does.  So, he bought the kit which came with the structure and the sand and instructions for ordering your ants.  The ants, we were told, would be shipped when it was warm enough for them to arrive safely.  And arrive they did, this past Friday, with the sunshine. 

While it seems like being shipped via US mail would be enough danger for any species, the first instructions directed the ants spend 15 minutes in the fridge ("not the freezer") to improve docility.  This quarter hour being duly served, the detachment of our family charged with getting the ants into their new home (i.e. Corin and Tim) stopped reading the instructions.  Though it turns out that the directions detail a rather easy way to get the ants from their tube into the habitat, the Iudicellos went for the less known pouring-them-from-the-tube-and-directing-them-with-a-twisty-tie method.  As this method was a bit more time consuming, their docility wore off before all were populated to the habitat.  Thus, we had Pogonomyrmex running on the counter, scurrying on the stools and diving for the floor.  But at last, our ant-wranglers managed to shepherd them all into their cozy new home and secure the lid.  And so began our surprising new hobby of watching these gals go to work.

After a short period of recovering from shock, go to work they did.  First they had to manage their casualties.  There were two dead ants, and these they carried around and buried --buried, with the tiny floret of broccoli Corin had given them as food.  Then they seemed not to have liked where they buried their friends and they set about unmounding each grain of sand, exhuming the bodies, and moving them to some place different, where they buried them again.  With the broccoli.  A few ants started tunnels.  A few more ants again moved the dead.  And on and on it went. 

The thing is, we keep watching.  In the morning, we wake the kids with, "come see what your ants did through the night."  And through the day when I'm making a cup of tea or pausing between activities, I find myself resting my elbows on the counter, my chin in my hands, and watching these little beings about their work - their fascinating and ceaseless work. 

So here's what I'm thinking about that prescription for wisdom that is said to be the byproduct of considering the ants.  It's obvious, of course, that they are industrious ("workful" as one of my kids called it).  But the thing I have found most compelling, is not that they are so busy, but that whatever we have done to their habitat (accidentally tipped it over, put a piece of food right over the access to their tunnel, given them a piece of tubing to explore then removed it the next day) they adjust to the "new" on seamlessly.  In fact their whole situation of finding themselves in a sand filled crack between two 5"x8"x1/4" panels of plastic, seems like it would be a "new" to which it would be hard to adjust, at least warranting the ant equivalent of a pity party. Instead these harvester ants just set about their work - in earnest.  And, hey, if someone wants to move the dead over here, then everyone pitches in and moves the dead.  And the broccoli. Even if they had just moved these things earlier in the day or the hour.  Our lives can have that same repetitive feel (didn't I just clean off the counter after the breakfast barrage and now it's filled up again under the guise of lunch?  Didn't I just wash those pants of Seth's/socks of Birtie's/shirts of Corin's two days ago and now here they all are in the laundry again?).  The ants get on with their business, models of detachment from particular outcomes, completely invested in the ever-evolving process.  And they do it moment by moment, grain by grain.  And, hey, there's wisdom in that.