a CITIZEN JOURNALIST reflects on Earth Day and what it means to the health of our planet
Frankly, I’m torn. On the one hand, I desperately want to do my part, which for me amounts to breathing a lot less and planting sustainable foods using a ploughshare and the cache of heirloom seeds I picked up off eBay, then watering my bounty to root with the sweat of my brow; on the other hand, however, I can’t help but feel like every time I stand over the combed dirt, erect and eager, sickle in hand, by my subsequent violent thrustings I’ll be in essence ripping through the Great Mother’s under garments, penetrating her with my hard steel, taking advantage of her need to feel loved and fertile in order to satiate my own lust, my own power, my own desire to see my seed gain purchase.
And that just feels creepy, truth be told.
— Which I suppose is why I’m leaning toward letting Mexicans do it for me.
And honestly: is that really so wrong?
I mean, it beats ripping gourds from the ground, hacking them up, and then stuffing them in a trunk.*