My plants are not afraid.
I regularly come at them armed with all manner of sharp objects and there is not a quiver, no tears, no wringing of the leaves.
All plants are this way. Redwood trees that have lived for thousands of years stand patiently while creatures 1/1000th their size chop away at them, cutting off their life sustaining mechanisms, and let them fall – sometimes just for the brief thrill of the fall sometimes to make picnic tables.
The cynical will say that, duh, they have no central nervous system, no brain, not thought process etc. etc. etc.
True enough. But why not? Why do they have no capacity for fear while it often dominates our lives.
I’ve decided its because they can’t do anything about what threatens them. We can. We are not held in one place. We, and the vast majority of animals, can generally have some influence on our own survival with some kind of motion. But to get us into motion, se need a motivator. Fear is the answer.
Over the eons, clearly he who has developed fear has survived – to reproduce other little beings who have inherited this capacity.
Traditionally fear has motivated animals into a “fight or flight” mode – response denied to our herbaceous friends. This reaction is immediate, and basic to animal life and it takes significant maturity and courage to get beyond it.
At a recent holiday get together, my 18 month old granddaughter, lost in a sea of legs, cozied up to some denim clad ones she assumed were her dad’s. When an upward glance revealed her uncle Sam instead she made a quick spin around and flew down a hallway as fast as her 10 inch legs could propel her. At this age she had the wisdom to know fighting was not an option, her prospects were no better in unknown parts of the house.
Her reaction was primal. It was a visceral reaction to the unknown and the strange ,that had kept her ancestors alive long enough to reproduce. No small thing there.
At the same time, it was unnecessary as she learned over the course of the evening. Not only was her Uncle Sam no one to be feared but he could be fun. It took courage on her part to find this out beginning with the courage to be in the same room as him, warily and then enthusiastically share a good game of “peek-a-boo” and finally engage in a free for all “chase” around the coffee table. The ultimate acceptance, of course, came with the “breaking of bread” (in this case a carrot stick) together. There is something about eating together that brings about bonding.
Fear, while clearly a gift from god than can preserve life, unfortunately brings with it challenges that can be just ironically threaten life.
If we do not show the courage that my granddaughter did, if we are unwilling to face our fear and evaluate them fear breeds hatred and hatred can make us do all kinds of dreadful things.
Fear, and ultimately hatred, of the maggots in my compost pile very nearly caused me to take rash action that would have been detrimental to both these little creatures and myself. To overcome the fear, I had to overcome ignorance, I had to broaden my outlook, I had to include brown wiggly maggots within the context of God’s creation. Note – I did not have to find them appealing. But to assume I had a right because of my mindset, my pupa prejudice, to eliminate the source of my discomfort is a big leap and I’m pretty sure that god would not approve – metaphorically speaking of course.
But OMG how we humans do this. Diversity is not something any of us is initially good at. Again, for good reason. Fear of the different is deep in our genes. But we have some other gifts floating around that brain of ours – the gifts of reason and courage. In my experience, if I use them I will
This is not a concern in my little garden. Nobody is fearful of anybody else
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
War
Reading "Half the Sky" which reminds me of the terrible things people do to other people very often in the name of God. Reminded me of this piece that I wrote in 2005 as we were getting entangled in Iraq. (Not much to do with Gardens, oh well).
February 24, 2005
Deja Vue
The U.S. began bombing Vietnam with B-52’s in 1966. Twenty thousand combat soldiers were on the ground at that time, a small percentage of what was to come. That summer I lived on an Army base in Colorado. What I experienced there it broke my heart and changed me as a person. Today, to the tune of the same rhetoric, the same politics, the same promises of freedom, we again send our youth to fight, sacrifice and die. My long ago summer seems like it was yesterday.
I was a student at UC Davis, majoring in nutrition with the intent of becoming a Registered Dietitian. The Army, interested in recruiting dietitians, offered us an all expense paid July at one of their hospitals where we would serve as “trainees”, and hopefully become enamored with what the Army had to offer.
Resistance to the “police action” in Vietnam was beginning to build; it was enough to cause most of my classmates to look askance at the military. I, on the other hand, had no trouble leaving decisions about the protection of our freedoms to the wisdom of elected officials. I was happy to consider being of service to my country, and anyway, was pretty confident that they weren’t going man the front lines with dietitians.
My assignment, along with seven other student dietitians, was Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver Colorado. We met, worked and learned from a variety of people of all ranks and responsibilities. We celebrated my 21st birthday with a party at the officer’s club complete with inexpensive drinks, great hors d'oeuvres, and good company. While we spent many evenings at the club, we also had nights on the town in Denver, which, for this newly minted adult, was pretty exiting stuff. We lived in officer’s quarters, walked around in our white wannabe officers uniforms, and in general enjoyed a heady sense of being “special” people.
We were young and war was fun.
Darkness, however, quietly crept in. Our responsibilities included meeting with patients to discuss food preferences and any special dietary restrictions. One wing, “Four East”, filled even the most stalwart young dietitian with foreboding. This wing consisted of a large ward with dozens of barracks style beds and a few private rooms for officers. The patients were all, essentially, healthy teenagers and young men. Walking in there was like walking into a spirited fraternity house whose members had way to much time on their hands. Bare in mind, this was pre women’s lib.
Why were these fine representatives of manhood housed at Fitzsimmons Hospital? Most were missing something: legs, arms, hands, parts of this or that. Some had spinal injuries. This was an orthopedic ward and these kids were returnees from Vietnam recovering as best they could from debilitating injuries. I came to the sad realization that the macho fervor demonstrated by these guys was, in fact, a desperate effort to convince themselves that they were still whole. Once in awhile the facade would crack, exposing a scared little boy. Over the month I was there, the rows of disfigured, maimed bodies increasingly weighed on me.
One man I remember did not display any bravado. He was a new admit in a private room so he must have been an officer. Probably in his mid twenties, he seemed quite mature by my standards. Sitting up in bed, he was naked to the waist. His chest and arms had a number of superficial injuries on them. His dark hair was long enough to be in disarray and there was a bit of a gloss to his skin. Staring straight ahead when I entered the room, he did not acknowledge my presence. I thought he had a drop dead gorgeous body, all the way down to where it ended, right above where the knees should have been.
I began my introductions in my standard cheery manner that was no doubt grating to someone who did not feel particularly cheery. When asked about his vegetable preferences, he slowly turned his eyes to me: they were dark, and deep, and did a poor job of hiding a crushing sadness. He responded, very politely, “I don’t really care”. Although the voice was quiet, I had a sense that another idiotic question was going to induce serious anger. I was being summarily dismissed, and I took my exit.
There was a 19 year old who passed his days chest down on a gurney and maneuvered himself around the ward with the use of a small child’s crutch in each hand. He could only be described as insensitive and crude, making salacious comments to women and going so far as to maneuver his gurney to trap an occasional female in a corner and make sexual propositions to her.
After such an encounter I complained to one of the staff nurses. She was a statuesque blonde who had also been the victim of this behavior, but who seemed to take it in stride - odd even in those days. Her response was brusque. “That boy may have never had sex in his life, and now he is dead from the chest down. Let’s give him a break”. Hot tears welled up in my eyes, a result partially from the embarrassment of my own naïveté, but more from a painful empathy that I suddenly felt. Whatever splendor I had once seen in war was dissipating rapidly.
At Fitzsimmons hospital that month I began a process of questioning that was to change my outlook on war. While our leaders squabbled for months over the shape of the negotiation table, the despair in the dark eyes of that young officer haunted me. I could not listen to the continual assurances that this “war is necessary to protect our freedoms”, or brave political declarations that we would “stick this out until we liberated the Vietnamese people from the communists” without seeing the rows of deformed boys and young men. And the humiliating way we finally ducked out of that country, after so many years of horror and destruction, was as excruciating as it had been inevitable. Nothing was gained. The losses were huge – I had been witness to some.
It was a funny thing about that war. Statistics about “casualties” – those Americans that died - were commonly available, as were the highly inflated figures of “enemy” deaths. But the injuries, the maiming, those weren’t often reported. Death is tidy, over, done with. It is even conveniently wrapped up in boxes covered with pretty flags. Maiming isn’t tidy. The personal losses, the daily struggles, the chronic pain, and the indignities, grind on day after day, year after year, decade after decade.
War, which had always been billed to me as the way good people protect their freedoms from bad people, showed itself as archaic, bizarre and just stupid. The more I questioned, the more realized that it has never been a way to end disputes, but in fact, like most fighting among human beings, it is a contest for power. And, as President (and General) Dwight D. Eisenhower so dramatically warned, the other impetus is profit.
The profundity of the phrase “violence begets violence” is masked by its triteness. Nonetheless, centuries of experience demonstrate its validity. Just ask the Irish, the Israelis and Palestinians, or any street gang in Sacramento. Violence only plants the seeds of more violence and only ends when the hearts and minds of the mutual enemies are reached.
Thirty-eight years after my Colorado summer we again brandish our big stick and scoff at the idea of talking softly. Power and profit are sought for the powerful and the rich while the rest of us anesthetize ourselves with the nobility of war “for the sake of freedom”. Once again we don’t bother asking if we aren’t just making things worse. Once again we show remarkable unwillingness to put effort, and resources, into seeking mutual lasting solutions to our formidable global problems. We fall in formation as the “military-industrial complex” and the power hungry beat the drums of this barbaric custom.
In October my first grandchild was born. Named Colin for his great great grandfather he is a reminder to us of our responsibilities toward the future. He looks into my eyes with the unquestioning trust of a newborn. The thought of this perfect child, someday face down on a gurney, propelling himself with tiny crutches and dealing with unimaginable losses – because of someone else’s power trip or bottom line - brings tears to my eyes and I feel connected with all the families who have seen their loved ones slip into oblivion, and found themselves haunted by the word “why?”
February 24, 2005
Deja Vue
The U.S. began bombing Vietnam with B-52’s in 1966. Twenty thousand combat soldiers were on the ground at that time, a small percentage of what was to come. That summer I lived on an Army base in Colorado. What I experienced there it broke my heart and changed me as a person. Today, to the tune of the same rhetoric, the same politics, the same promises of freedom, we again send our youth to fight, sacrifice and die. My long ago summer seems like it was yesterday.
I was a student at UC Davis, majoring in nutrition with the intent of becoming a Registered Dietitian. The Army, interested in recruiting dietitians, offered us an all expense paid July at one of their hospitals where we would serve as “trainees”, and hopefully become enamored with what the Army had to offer.
Resistance to the “police action” in Vietnam was beginning to build; it was enough to cause most of my classmates to look askance at the military. I, on the other hand, had no trouble leaving decisions about the protection of our freedoms to the wisdom of elected officials. I was happy to consider being of service to my country, and anyway, was pretty confident that they weren’t going man the front lines with dietitians.
My assignment, along with seven other student dietitians, was Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in Denver Colorado. We met, worked and learned from a variety of people of all ranks and responsibilities. We celebrated my 21st birthday with a party at the officer’s club complete with inexpensive drinks, great hors d'oeuvres, and good company. While we spent many evenings at the club, we also had nights on the town in Denver, which, for this newly minted adult, was pretty exiting stuff. We lived in officer’s quarters, walked around in our white wannabe officers uniforms, and in general enjoyed a heady sense of being “special” people.
We were young and war was fun.
Darkness, however, quietly crept in. Our responsibilities included meeting with patients to discuss food preferences and any special dietary restrictions. One wing, “Four East”, filled even the most stalwart young dietitian with foreboding. This wing consisted of a large ward with dozens of barracks style beds and a few private rooms for officers. The patients were all, essentially, healthy teenagers and young men. Walking in there was like walking into a spirited fraternity house whose members had way to much time on their hands. Bare in mind, this was pre women’s lib.
Why were these fine representatives of manhood housed at Fitzsimmons Hospital? Most were missing something: legs, arms, hands, parts of this or that. Some had spinal injuries. This was an orthopedic ward and these kids were returnees from Vietnam recovering as best they could from debilitating injuries. I came to the sad realization that the macho fervor demonstrated by these guys was, in fact, a desperate effort to convince themselves that they were still whole. Once in awhile the facade would crack, exposing a scared little boy. Over the month I was there, the rows of disfigured, maimed bodies increasingly weighed on me.
One man I remember did not display any bravado. He was a new admit in a private room so he must have been an officer. Probably in his mid twenties, he seemed quite mature by my standards. Sitting up in bed, he was naked to the waist. His chest and arms had a number of superficial injuries on them. His dark hair was long enough to be in disarray and there was a bit of a gloss to his skin. Staring straight ahead when I entered the room, he did not acknowledge my presence. I thought he had a drop dead gorgeous body, all the way down to where it ended, right above where the knees should have been.
I began my introductions in my standard cheery manner that was no doubt grating to someone who did not feel particularly cheery. When asked about his vegetable preferences, he slowly turned his eyes to me: they were dark, and deep, and did a poor job of hiding a crushing sadness. He responded, very politely, “I don’t really care”. Although the voice was quiet, I had a sense that another idiotic question was going to induce serious anger. I was being summarily dismissed, and I took my exit.
There was a 19 year old who passed his days chest down on a gurney and maneuvered himself around the ward with the use of a small child’s crutch in each hand. He could only be described as insensitive and crude, making salacious comments to women and going so far as to maneuver his gurney to trap an occasional female in a corner and make sexual propositions to her.
After such an encounter I complained to one of the staff nurses. She was a statuesque blonde who had also been the victim of this behavior, but who seemed to take it in stride - odd even in those days. Her response was brusque. “That boy may have never had sex in his life, and now he is dead from the chest down. Let’s give him a break”. Hot tears welled up in my eyes, a result partially from the embarrassment of my own naïveté, but more from a painful empathy that I suddenly felt. Whatever splendor I had once seen in war was dissipating rapidly.
At Fitzsimmons hospital that month I began a process of questioning that was to change my outlook on war. While our leaders squabbled for months over the shape of the negotiation table, the despair in the dark eyes of that young officer haunted me. I could not listen to the continual assurances that this “war is necessary to protect our freedoms”, or brave political declarations that we would “stick this out until we liberated the Vietnamese people from the communists” without seeing the rows of deformed boys and young men. And the humiliating way we finally ducked out of that country, after so many years of horror and destruction, was as excruciating as it had been inevitable. Nothing was gained. The losses were huge – I had been witness to some.
It was a funny thing about that war. Statistics about “casualties” – those Americans that died - were commonly available, as were the highly inflated figures of “enemy” deaths. But the injuries, the maiming, those weren’t often reported. Death is tidy, over, done with. It is even conveniently wrapped up in boxes covered with pretty flags. Maiming isn’t tidy. The personal losses, the daily struggles, the chronic pain, and the indignities, grind on day after day, year after year, decade after decade.
War, which had always been billed to me as the way good people protect their freedoms from bad people, showed itself as archaic, bizarre and just stupid. The more I questioned, the more realized that it has never been a way to end disputes, but in fact, like most fighting among human beings, it is a contest for power. And, as President (and General) Dwight D. Eisenhower so dramatically warned, the other impetus is profit.
The profundity of the phrase “violence begets violence” is masked by its triteness. Nonetheless, centuries of experience demonstrate its validity. Just ask the Irish, the Israelis and Palestinians, or any street gang in Sacramento. Violence only plants the seeds of more violence and only ends when the hearts and minds of the mutual enemies are reached.
Thirty-eight years after my Colorado summer we again brandish our big stick and scoff at the idea of talking softly. Power and profit are sought for the powerful and the rich while the rest of us anesthetize ourselves with the nobility of war “for the sake of freedom”. Once again we don’t bother asking if we aren’t just making things worse. Once again we show remarkable unwillingness to put effort, and resources, into seeking mutual lasting solutions to our formidable global problems. We fall in formation as the “military-industrial complex” and the power hungry beat the drums of this barbaric custom.
In October my first grandchild was born. Named Colin for his great great grandfather he is a reminder to us of our responsibilities toward the future. He looks into my eyes with the unquestioning trust of a newborn. The thought of this perfect child, someday face down on a gurney, propelling himself with tiny crutches and dealing with unimaginable losses – because of someone else’s power trip or bottom line - brings tears to my eyes and I feel connected with all the families who have seen their loved ones slip into oblivion, and found themselves haunted by the word “why?”
Friday, January 27, 2012
Avarice
In the back of my garden – at the pointy end of the pie shape are two small peach trees. Bred to produce lots of peaches, they sometimes outdo themselves. They inevitably produce more that we can use in the short time they are ripe. On more than one occasion they have produced so many peaches on a branch that the branch has been broken and it, and the peaches have been lost. I could have removed some of the peaches when they were small. I knew I should have at the time. But there was something about all those lovely peaches. I wanted them all. And of course I paid (and my little tree) the price.
There is something about more. I love my tomato plants covered with tomatoes, far in excess of what we than we can eat. Vines heavy with green beans, and the very satisfyingly overproductive zucchini, appeal to something within me. If I am honest, I recognize it as a familiar feeling – avarice. Having more is, at some level, exciting, delicious. More than what? Just more.
Assume for a minute that God is a Grandfather-like guy, with a long white beard and flowing robes, enthroned in the clouds. If there is one human trait that keeps him up at night, it is avarice.
We tend to think of avarice as just concerning financial matters – and that is a major destructive force to be sure. But I prefer the more technical, broader definition roughly conveyed as “This ain’t good enough, God!”
More than any other human failing, this is the one that will bring us to our last days as we drain and pollute our Garden of Eden in search of more, more, and still more.
Regardless of our wealth, or culture, humans typically convince ourselves that what we have is not enough. We see something we want, we hyperventilate. We buy. Very often we go into debt to buy. We possess. We store and dust and fill our shelves and our closets and our garages and we stack boxes in corners, and we buy things to store and display the things we have and we and rent storage units, and then we buy more to replace the things that we already have but we forgot we had, or we can’t find them.
It’s all very human. I suppose some rodents are known for putting up supplies for the winter (and occasionally forget where they have stored them which accounts for a lot of new trees in the Spring) but by and large the rest of God's creatures do not seem to have this drive to accumulate beyond their needs.
Oddly – the way we show love or congratulations or appreciation or, for that matter, any excuse, is to give something.
Imagine what life would be like if we cut back to what we need, and/or, as someone suggested, really love. (I have to say that because otherwise I’d have to exclude chocolate and I don’t want to go there.) All those hours in the mall, all the time moving, cleaning and deciding what to do with stuff not to mention coveting other people’s stuff.
This human trait and does not have any basis on our real needs, or our economic status. The need for more is just as powerful in the wealthy as the poor. Somebody did a “study”. Someone is always doing a study. But this one was interesting.
They interviewed lots of people and asked how much money would make them comfortable – would be enough. Regardless of culture or economic status, people pretty much said the same thing. They would feel satisfied, and at ease if they had 2.4 times as much. If you had $10,000 you wanted $24,000. If you had $100,000 you wanted $240,000. If you had a billion – well you get the idea. Very few of us are happy with what er have now, but among the happy, you would be just as likely to be poor as rich.
This was also a moving target. If you reached your 2.4 times, goal, it transformed itself. Now you want wanted 2.4 times what you now have.
And yet there is plenty of evidence that, beyond the basic needs, having more does not bring happiness. It is common to give lip service to that idea, but how many of us really are willing to live our lives at a simpler more basic level?
What if we didn’t have 10 or more pairs of shoes? What if we actually wore our clothes out? What if we didn’t keep replacing and started repairing. What if we learned to enjoy simple food in reasonable portions? What if we stopped buying, buying, buying? What if we had room for what we own and I don’t mean by buying a bigger house. What if we left a little for our grandchildren?
When I picture God in his kindly anthropologic form, I see a tear in his eye. I do know this – refusal to be happy with the gifts God has given is not the way to love God.
When I am sitting in my little garden with the bees and the bugs and the birds and the plants with their leaves turned toward the light I am struck by the simple satisfaction that comes from appreciating the abundance of nature, and pausing ever so briefly from a life of accumulating and collecting stuff.
It is complex and it is simple. It is all a wonderful gift but so common we usually fail to see how generous nature is to us. The plants collect water with their roots and carbon dioxide with their leaves and use the sunlight to produce sugars that are the basis for their structure and our food. They don’t complain. There is plenty. Each plant provides far more fruits and seeds and roots that are needed for its own reproduction and so provides food for animals. It is simpbeautiful. It is breathtaking. And when sitting in my garden, at least for a few moments now and then, I realize it blasphemous to be anything other than grateful or to ask for more.
There are two major threats to the survival of the human species. One is environmental degradation which would include climate change. The other is war, increasingly war over resources. Both of these threats could be significantly reduced if not all together alleviated if we could control our avarice.
Today we need to use another divine trait we have been given - the ability to see beyond, to project forward, to see ourselves as part of a single living organism. We need the wisdom to say enough is enough, to trim back the peaches, to share the tomatoes, to rejoice in the generosity of nature and stop demanding more.
“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's need, but not every man's greed”
There is something about more. I love my tomato plants covered with tomatoes, far in excess of what we than we can eat. Vines heavy with green beans, and the very satisfyingly overproductive zucchini, appeal to something within me. If I am honest, I recognize it as a familiar feeling – avarice. Having more is, at some level, exciting, delicious. More than what? Just more.
Assume for a minute that God is a Grandfather-like guy, with a long white beard and flowing robes, enthroned in the clouds. If there is one human trait that keeps him up at night, it is avarice.
We tend to think of avarice as just concerning financial matters – and that is a major destructive force to be sure. But I prefer the more technical, broader definition roughly conveyed as “This ain’t good enough, God!”
More than any other human failing, this is the one that will bring us to our last days as we drain and pollute our Garden of Eden in search of more, more, and still more.
Regardless of our wealth, or culture, humans typically convince ourselves that what we have is not enough. We see something we want, we hyperventilate. We buy. Very often we go into debt to buy. We possess. We store and dust and fill our shelves and our closets and our garages and we stack boxes in corners, and we buy things to store and display the things we have and we and rent storage units, and then we buy more to replace the things that we already have but we forgot we had, or we can’t find them.
It’s all very human. I suppose some rodents are known for putting up supplies for the winter (and occasionally forget where they have stored them which accounts for a lot of new trees in the Spring) but by and large the rest of God's creatures do not seem to have this drive to accumulate beyond their needs.
Oddly – the way we show love or congratulations or appreciation or, for that matter, any excuse, is to give something.
Imagine what life would be like if we cut back to what we need, and/or, as someone suggested, really love. (I have to say that because otherwise I’d have to exclude chocolate and I don’t want to go there.) All those hours in the mall, all the time moving, cleaning and deciding what to do with stuff not to mention coveting other people’s stuff.
This human trait and does not have any basis on our real needs, or our economic status. The need for more is just as powerful in the wealthy as the poor. Somebody did a “study”. Someone is always doing a study. But this one was interesting.
They interviewed lots of people and asked how much money would make them comfortable – would be enough. Regardless of culture or economic status, people pretty much said the same thing. They would feel satisfied, and at ease if they had 2.4 times as much. If you had $10,000 you wanted $24,000. If you had $100,000 you wanted $240,000. If you had a billion – well you get the idea. Very few of us are happy with what er have now, but among the happy, you would be just as likely to be poor as rich.
This was also a moving target. If you reached your 2.4 times, goal, it transformed itself. Now you want wanted 2.4 times what you now have.
And yet there is plenty of evidence that, beyond the basic needs, having more does not bring happiness. It is common to give lip service to that idea, but how many of us really are willing to live our lives at a simpler more basic level?
What if we didn’t have 10 or more pairs of shoes? What if we actually wore our clothes out? What if we didn’t keep replacing and started repairing. What if we learned to enjoy simple food in reasonable portions? What if we stopped buying, buying, buying? What if we had room for what we own and I don’t mean by buying a bigger house. What if we left a little for our grandchildren?
When I picture God in his kindly anthropologic form, I see a tear in his eye. I do know this – refusal to be happy with the gifts God has given is not the way to love God.
When I am sitting in my little garden with the bees and the bugs and the birds and the plants with their leaves turned toward the light I am struck by the simple satisfaction that comes from appreciating the abundance of nature, and pausing ever so briefly from a life of accumulating and collecting stuff.
It is complex and it is simple. It is all a wonderful gift but so common we usually fail to see how generous nature is to us. The plants collect water with their roots and carbon dioxide with their leaves and use the sunlight to produce sugars that are the basis for their structure and our food. They don’t complain. There is plenty. Each plant provides far more fruits and seeds and roots that are needed for its own reproduction and so provides food for animals. It is simpbeautiful. It is breathtaking. And when sitting in my garden, at least for a few moments now and then, I realize it blasphemous to be anything other than grateful or to ask for more.
There are two major threats to the survival of the human species. One is environmental degradation which would include climate change. The other is war, increasingly war over resources. Both of these threats could be significantly reduced if not all together alleviated if we could control our avarice.
Today we need to use another divine trait we have been given - the ability to see beyond, to project forward, to see ourselves as part of a single living organism. We need the wisdom to say enough is enough, to trim back the peaches, to share the tomatoes, to rejoice in the generosity of nature and stop demanding more.
“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's need, but not every man's greed”
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