The non-human world

Before I drink my coffee in the morning, I don’t feel entirely human.

When I hear someone make a racist joke, even if it is self-deprecating, I see in them a belief that not everyone is human, that not all parts of themselves are human, and that not all deserve to live—or at least, to be respected.

I think it is important to recognize that we move in and out of our humanity, that sometimes we are more fully present as people than at other times. For example, when we turn a blind eye to a moral dilemma and act as if it is not our problem, we give up a piece of our humanity. At other times, we may become rigidly fixated on one side of a conflict—righteously demonizing other people. In doing so, we ignore the humanity of others, making our own moral stance too easy, too simplistic, and ultimately, less human.

In the myth of Narcissus and Echo, both characters exist on the edges of what it means to be human.

Narcissus, a beautiful youth, is cursed to fall in love with his own reflection after rejecting the love of others. Gazing into the water, he becomes entranced, unable to look away, slowly wasting away in devotion to his own image. His tragedy is that he sees himself only from the outside, as a surface to be admired, never engaging with his deeper self or the world around him. In this, he resembles those who believe that status, wealth, or appearance define a person’s worth—a seductive, yet hollow perspective in a materialistic world.

Echo, on the other hand, is doomed to only repeat the words of others, forever lacking a voice of her own. She fades into the background, existing solely in relation to those around her. In this way, she is like those who feel that their worth is tied to pleasing and appeasing others, who sacrifice their own presence to serve, nurture, or reflect back what others want to see. Many caregivers, especially in modern society, are expected to take on this role—to be there for others, while remaining unseen themselves.

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But in this myth of two non-humans, we often forget the setting that holds them: the wilderness, the living world that surrounds and absorbs them. Narcissus does not die in isolation—his body disappears, and in its place, a flower blooms. Echo does not simply vanish—her voice lingers, carried by the landscape. They merge with nature itself, dissolving into something beyond human form. Recently, I was in grief, and my friends and family could only console me in part. I felt a pull to go to the trees and the rocks, to swim in the sea, and to look at the landscape. I felt that people were limited in their capacity to contain my sorrow, but nature wasn’t. In my struggle to find meaning and growth in my sadness, rather than be scarred and diminished by it, I needed the help of nature. The trees reminded me that being less human does not mean something bad. They helped me see that even the one I was grieving, now laid in the ground, was still in a good place.

Since then, I have been seeking the company of trees. I have been exploring their bark, which takes decades and centuries to form. I have been noticing their elders and their younglings. And I have been returning to the paved city rehumanized.