There’s something that happens when bare feet meet sand, something internally that travels all the way to your amygdala and suddenly you’re at complete serenity. I sit down on the pebble filled beach and gaze out at the Hudson River, so far that the water looks motionless. I’ve sat here so often, completely blind of the life that is going on beneath the surface, unaware of the small intimate details of the ebbs and flows of the river, the diversity of life exploring the sandy floor just as I am. Sitting here I make a conscious decision to focus, and really focus, on getting up close and personal with nature in a way that I have yet to experience. As I recline all the way back until my head has made an imprint in the sand, I feel the knots in my stomach filling me with trivial worry about the creatures that may use my body as a bridge to their next location. So caught up on the human labels of small life creatures as pests, or spiders as scary, flies as nuisances, and things to be exterminated that I had forgotten we are all one in the same. I tilt my head to the side; I am now centimeters away from the ground, face to face with the floor beneath me and the life that lives within it. At first, nothing, no movement, just pebbles and rocks half buried in the salt and pepper sand, varying from shades of whites to greys. I run my fingers through the sand, disrupting the stillness, and just close my eyes as I attempt to feel each grain of sand fall back on to the bed in which it was taken from. I am suddenly awoken when coldness quickly hits the heel of my foot. The water now has small ripples in it, the wind is starting to pick up, the ripples now start to turn into mini waves and then the wind stops, and all becomes still again. With each new flow of water that meets the sand, the Hudson swallows up a diverse spread of rocks and then drops off a whole new set that is perfectly polished and shiny. A buzz whips by my ear, I swat the air, monetarily forgetting the conscious decision I had made so I decided to see where the fly was going to land. I lift myself up and slowly walk over to the edge of the water and squat down. I have not disturbed the fly or the three other flies that were hovering over a washed up dead fish. The fish was small, no skin was left on the body of the fish just a some grey shiny scales left on the head, surrounding the beady eyeballs which I will admit was hard to look at up close. The small bones of the fish were exposed; the smell was that of a seafood market covered in salt. The sodium smell in the air is what really overwhelmed me. I have never taken the time to watch a fly; they are always getting swatted away before they can even land. I sat down only a few inches from this deceased fish and watched as the flies would hover over the fish and then land only for a few moments and let out their proboscis, much like a straw for humans, that then sucked up the fluid mixture the flies produced taking what they can from the remains. The cycle continued for minutes, this landing then flying away and coming back for more, eventually inviting in two new flies to the mix. An occasional rest would take place on my shin and instead of swatting the fly away, I allowed it to sit and I could feel its legs feeling around on my skin, the faintest touch on my skin I had ever felt. If I had been asleep or even looking in another direction, would I still feel the fly? Well I tested it out, I closed my eyes for thirty seconds or so and I could still feel the fly, was this perhaps because I am already aware that it is there, or do even the smallest beings of our world still hold an impact you can feel. I tried to remain as still as possible so I would not encourage the fly to leave but the stiffness in my leg caused an unexpected twitch in my foot and off it went, right back to the carcass. A few moments of unity with one fly alleviated the impatience and eagerness to remove these beings from my presence. I leave the feast and make my way back to where I was originally laying down. At first glance, nothing new had taken place, but then about arms length away was a black spider, the size of a quarter, climbing up and over each small rock in its way. The bigger the rock it had to go over, the faster it moved, looking like it was just gliding over the tops of the rocks then disappearing in their crevices. He was not moving in my direction, but instead headed directly for the water, perhaps he was going to find some food just as the flies had, or perhaps I am not a destination in which he wants to come into contact with. I watch as he continues down closer and closer to the water, but then I lose him faster than I can blink. He has tunneled his way underneath the plush ground, underneath the pebbles and is not resurfacing in my field of vision. My mind has shifted from what I can see on the surface, to now imagining the life taking place right beneath me that I cannot witness, that I must not disturb by digging, and that I must wait to observe in its natural state when they come up for air. My first day really observing nature it its raw state, free from threat in that moment, flies free from hands swatting them away, spiders free from being stepped on or sprayed with pesticides, I grew an appreciation and compassion for insects and species that have not been given the same respect or care as say a loved puppy. In one hour, I felt the true essence of earth.