The other night I got on my knees to observe a line of ants walking across my kitchen floor. The tile was dirty, the carpet needed a good vacuum and the cats (both blind) could sense something was amiss. But despite my impulse to lunge for the Swifter I stayed with the ants and just watched for a good 10 minutes. There must have been hundreds of them, following a scent or perhaps escaping trouble. The thing about ants, I discovered, is that it’s hard to know if they are coming or going. I followed their little conga line to what I believed was their final destination–the dishwasher.┬áNow, if I were an ant the dishwasher would be the last place I’d want to set up camp, like a jacuzzi gone impossibly wrong. But these ants had a plan, and I was in no position to upset this plan. Though, even as I was charged by my roommate (who had left town for a week) to handle this invasion I was having second thoughts about disrupting what clearly was a dance toward survival. Maybe it’s because I had just watched Planet Earth on Netflix or maybe it’s because the weather is warming and all the little birds and bees are starting to make themselves known to me, but I didn’t do anything. I still haven’t. And I probably won’t because there’s something magical about that line of ants marching themselves across my dirty kitchen floor. There’s something mysterious and life affirming in the way they instinctually know where to go and who to follow. Perhaps the ants don’t know what the end game is, the goal of the mission, or if God is real or not; but, they’re doing what they were born to do, present in the moment, living fully as an ant. I admire those little guys pushing through as a team, and I think the world is better off with ant lines than without.