Southern France, where the Pyrenees meet the Mediterranean, one summer in the early 1980s…
The land around our rented holiday home looks more like a desert than a garden. I guess the few attempts at growing plants were quickly undone by the fierce sunshine and long, dry summers.
I’m sitting on the biggest stone I could find at the end of the driveway so as not to sit directly in the dust. I don’t want to be told off for getting my shorts dirty!
Below me unfolds the most mesmerizing spectacle. Hundreds of ants going about their business. I watch carefully, their relentless back and forth with pieces of leaves above themselves is like a perfectly synchronized ballet. I don’t make any movements and I almost hold my breath so as not to disturb them.
One particular piece of rock is in their way and they follow each other around it, on a route that looks unnecessarily meandering. I’m tempted to remove the stone in order to help them out. But I’m worried I’d be creating mayhem if a familiar obstacle were to suddenly vanish. Instead, I keep watching in awe.
Suddenly, I hear my Mum’s voice calling from the house in the distance, “Yann, come here! It’s lunch time!” I know I’d better not hesitate and I get up immediately, cautiously avoiding to move anything. I say goodbye to my friends, the ants. My parents are kind people and look after me well, but I know that adults don’t understand that talking with the world around me is important. So I’ll interrupt my life to fit into their rules and schedule. It’s best to avoid trouble temporarily – and then get back to what’s fun whenever the adults are busy with other things!
We’ll see when that is…
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