Are We Special?

I have this theory
that we, as humans,
think too highly of ourselves.

We insist we are special.
Maybe we think life as we know it will never end.
Maybe we think the earth’s days are finite, but that we as humans will find an alternative home in this universe.
Maybe we think it won’t happen in our lifetime so it doesn’t matter.
Maybe we don’t worry about it because there is nothing we can do to change it.

I think, that
we aren’t special.
Like the flowers, we bloom then die,
Like the insects we produce offspring then die.

We, as a species, are so certain that we are important.
That our existence is superior to that of a blade of grass.
That we can think and feel and emote,
and that simply because we do not know other species have these capacities,
that they simply do not.

How foolish are we
to think this orbiting rock that graces us with life-giving wonders is not all there is for us?
How foolish are we to think we are special enough to destroy our home and receive an new one?
How foolish are we think think, ‘no, not given a new one, we will find a new one!’
As if we have more self-determination than an unlucky antelope grazing in a field, who becomes dinner for a hungry pride.
As if we have more say than the dinosaurs who met their demise but moments before our existence began.

Now, think about yourself.
Not the human race,
not the planet,
just your small self.
Do you still feel important?
Does what you do, and think, and feel matter?

At first, no. My answer is no.
I sit with myself and feel very, very small.

And then I push these ponderings aside and get back to my mundane existence.
I do my makeup.
I worry about whether or not I put enough deodorant on.
I fuss over which patio umbrella to buy.
I look at my roll of belly hanging above my laptop and tell myself I’ll exercise tomorrow.
I stay up late to finish work that will go unchecked anyway.

I do decide though
that small interactions matter.
I can feel numb and low and insignificant,
but I cannot deny the realness of connection.
Connection with humans, animals, plants, the sunshine, a breeze rustling through leaves.
I still don’t have answers,
but I simultaneously chastise and reassure myself that my fleeting moments of existence in the great unknown scheme of the universe
matter in some small way
because they impact other living beings,
and because connections are real.

Do I believe that to my core?
I don’t know.
But that’s what I tell myself tonight.