There will never be enough time to visit every little wetland or swamp that passes by on a road trip. No Go-Pro so small to tap gently onto the head of a wild tree frog that hops into your path. No explanation for ferret who appeared only to dance between cars, for the fisher cat that interrupted an afternoon drive, or the stag party in a neighbor’s lawn.

Within forests dozen more trees are fallen, consumed and inhabited by generations of birds and full civilizations of bugs. There are places and creatures still untouched, species far more elusive than Bigfoot that deserve their own passionate fans and multi-media conventions.

Shouldn’t we be throwing town events as the local bees waken from their slumber to feast on the nearby orchards? Why don’t we wear more blue whale shirts or hang memorabilia for rhinoceros?

Or have we become enamored with humanoid fantasy because we feel so desperately alone? Perhaps we live with an internal memory of the other species, desperately looking for them in our periphery, hoping to see a familiar face once more.

However our hubris keeps us from solving the loneliness. Our communities are more than human, going beyond the current anxiety and rules of society. Nature rules differently – it is impartial, random, and in perfect order of seasons: temperance in action.

We still commune with our fellow inhabitants by playing host and steward. We prepare the plates for pets and ants. Curious birds take refuge in backyards when tossed astray from storms, taking the time to refuel and heal before finding fellows to complete their migration.

Yet we are bitter to the humans who come to us, tossed astray by storms of dust and blood, who seek refuge long enough to heal and bring their family safe elsewhere. If we are willing to spend the time and money to craft green infrastructure of pleasant gardens and orchards that feed and benefit the honey bees, then we should also be willing to spend equally on the infrastructure in the towns and communities we inhabit.

Perhaps this loneliness epidemic is the loss of care: in seeking something or someone similar to ourselves, we lose the opportunity to learn over perceived differences. By showing interest in things smaller than ourselves, that speak in lyrical tones, we find an abundance of community.

You find you prefer to breakfast with your pet close by. Maybe leave an offering for an ant, just far away from the pantry. The birds outside the window become a crew like an office: there is the bossy cardinal; the chickadee that copies others; a titmouse that’s just a bit too nosy; and the blue jay that steals everyone’s lunch.

The truth is that we were never truly alone, just simply looking for a mirror that echoed back to us what we wanted to hear. Reality, fortunately, is far more nuanced than we’ve ever expected. Instead of journeying forward, which is already an individualistic endeavor, the opposite is to sit still in observation. I.e. if we cannot go forward, then we must go deeper. And here, deeper means not into ourselves, but into our communities and environment.

As this year continues, I hope you find moments to go deeper into your environment. Notice the symbiosis of bird and tree, how leaves unfurl and stretch out in exaltation. Can you find the logic of webs on cars and trees, or how to thread together our own nests?

Acknowledge the wisdom that is spread around us by other creatures and, perhaps, we can find ways to better help and direct our own.