We spread leadened gloss on our vain lips and pay for the sin of vanity with our tumored breasts.
We demand cheap meat, feast upon the tortured flesh, poison the earth and are incredulous when we become ill.
We trust in the Corporation, and let It tell us what to eat, what to breath, what to swaddle our children in.
We buy new things to replace our perfectly good old things, on credit that we cannot afford.
Our old things are buried, our sins buried, our past worthlessness is buried until it pollutes the earth and our grandchildren grow up unable to swim in the oceans, not knowing the taste of real strawberries.
My soul weeps. My heart is heavy, it does not soar.
How has this come to be? Greed. Gluttony. Displaced values and low self worth.
All I need, is enough. More than enough is more than enough. If there is excess when I am done, then I have consumed in excess. And I am ashamed.
To boast of excess used to be a way of showing power, status, and affluence. Excess is gluttony, obesity of the spirit, impairment of judgment.
A one dollar hamburger eaten with one hand while one person drives an SUV one block. This is the isolating metric of our time.
The lucky ones work tedious jobs to earn more money to pay for expensive gym memberships and expensive organic food, so they can escape the diseases of the poor: cancer, obesity, unbridled consumerism and credit card debt.
And still, we are all so alone. Things cannot fill the emptiness.
A fast food bag, travels three feet from the drive thru window to the car. And it has finally fulfilled it's destiny.
The three second journey from the window to the car, where it is pillaged by the chubby, greasy fingers of child on the verge of type two diabetes, is the useful life of the paper bag. Three seconds. Millions of trees logged, barrels of oil burned, kilotons of pollution created for that three second journey.
My heart is heavy. My soul, diminished.
And so I plant a garden. I place seeds in the earth, till the soil with my bare hands, and wait. I am patient, I do not demand more of the earth than it can give. I accept.
I find Zen in my garden. I am sincere in my intentions. I will give to the earth, and will take back only what it yields, less a little bit.
This transaction between myself and my garden, this exchange of energy, is a microcosm. It is a model for world peace. It is the solution to climate change. It is my own little secret, my private revolution.
I take a deep inhale, close my eyes, exhale, and let my gaze fall on my plot of baby strawberries. I smile, and suddenly all is right with the world.
We demand cheap meat, feast upon the tortured flesh, poison the earth and are incredulous when we become ill.
We trust in the Corporation, and let It tell us what to eat, what to breath, what to swaddle our children in.
We buy new things to replace our perfectly good old things, on credit that we cannot afford.
Our old things are buried, our sins buried, our past worthlessness is buried until it pollutes the earth and our grandchildren grow up unable to swim in the oceans, not knowing the taste of real strawberries.
My soul weeps. My heart is heavy, it does not soar.
How has this come to be? Greed. Gluttony. Displaced values and low self worth.
All I need, is enough. More than enough is more than enough. If there is excess when I am done, then I have consumed in excess. And I am ashamed.
To boast of excess used to be a way of showing power, status, and affluence. Excess is gluttony, obesity of the spirit, impairment of judgment.
A one dollar hamburger eaten with one hand while one person drives an SUV one block. This is the isolating metric of our time.
The lucky ones work tedious jobs to earn more money to pay for expensive gym memberships and expensive organic food, so they can escape the diseases of the poor: cancer, obesity, unbridled consumerism and credit card debt.
And still, we are all so alone. Things cannot fill the emptiness.
A fast food bag, travels three feet from the drive thru window to the car. And it has finally fulfilled it's destiny.
The three second journey from the window to the car, where it is pillaged by the chubby, greasy fingers of child on the verge of type two diabetes, is the useful life of the paper bag. Three seconds. Millions of trees logged, barrels of oil burned, kilotons of pollution created for that three second journey.
My heart is heavy. My soul, diminished.
And so I plant a garden. I place seeds in the earth, till the soil with my bare hands, and wait. I am patient, I do not demand more of the earth than it can give. I accept.
I find Zen in my garden. I am sincere in my intentions. I will give to the earth, and will take back only what it yields, less a little bit.
This transaction between myself and my garden, this exchange of energy, is a microcosm. It is a model for world peace. It is the solution to climate change. It is my own little secret, my private revolution.
I take a deep inhale, close my eyes, exhale, and let my gaze fall on my plot of baby strawberries. I smile, and suddenly all is right with the world.
