Italian
A solitary dolphin in the Venetian lagoon becomes a symbol of nature’s consciousness: Clodio challenges us to reflect on our relationship with the living world and the fragile boundary between fear and wonder.
The anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss argued that civilization begins when humans become aware that they are not an indistinct part of nature, but something different. From that moment on, humans could observe it, study it, understand its mechanisms, and — most importantly — exploit it. This is the beginning of science and technology, but also of separation.
Many believe that what truly distinguishes humans from other living beings is consciousness. Yet, we do not know where this primacy comes from, nor whether it is truly exclusive. Increasingly, scholars question whether other natural beings — animals, plants, ecosystems — are entirely devoid of it. Perhaps there exists a multiplicity of consciousnesses, different from ours but not inferior for that reason.
One of the deepest functions of consciousness is precisely to “give a soul” to the world. When we recognize a soul in nature, it ceases to be a mere object and becomes a partner in dialogue — something we can relate to. Plants, for example, not only grow, reproduce, and die as we do, but they communicate, react, and move. Animals do the same. Even what we call “inanimate” communicates with us, if only we know how to listen.
In this sense, nature is a teacher. It speaks to us even through the pain — physical and mental — that accompanies our existence. Pain, as feared as it may be, is necessary: it warns us, protects us, and pushes us to change. As social beings, we are exposed to the dynamics of dominance and submission typical of any group. The so-called “alphas” offer protection but also frustration and stress. Yet within us, nature demands freedom: the freedom to explore, to take risks, to traverse the unknown — both outside and within ourselves.
Even depression, which often appears to us as pure suffering, can be seen as nature’s way of inviting us to endure, to remain alive despite everything.
And then, reminding us of how we are part of something greater, come episodes like the one in the Venetian lagoon. A solitary dolphin, nicknamed “Clodio,” began swimming among the canals, astonishing locals and tourists alike. Dolphins, social mammals like us, live in pods: so why is Clodio alone? Perhaps he got lost, or perhaps he is old or ill, or maybe he chose to separate himself to explore new spaces.
Whatever the reason, his fate questions us. In a noisy environment crowded with boat engines and deprived of his deep sea, Clodio cannot survive long. To save him requires capturing him, treating him, feeding him, and — if possible — returning him to the open sea. It is an act of care with symbolic value: saving Clodio means recognizing his consciousness, his vulnerability, and his resemblance to us.
The truth is that consciousness does not belong solely to humans. We are part of nature, and after millennia of domination and separation, we should return to it the consciousness we have taken away.
Perhaps Clodio is not a lost animal but an explorer. Perhaps he left the pod to seek something new, to challenge the fear of the unknown. Ultimately, what he feels is very much like what we will feel when we one day set foot on Mars: fascination, solitude, fear, hope.
This is life: a continuous journey between fear and wonder. And nature, of which we are a part, reminds us of this every day.
