I want mine
Thank you once again to Christine from Quiet Paths, who commented on my post that many of the folks arguing that Earthcare isn't important are coming from a perspective of "I want mine." (She does point out that in this context, it means money, but I thought about what is mine that I want.)
But part of it is that I do want mine. I want my hills and my blackberries. I want my strawberries (the little ones that taste like strawberries, not the bloated bags of water you can get in January, for pity's sake) and my place in the land. I want the sweet corn that God placed on the earth to feed us, and the songbirds sent to cheer us. I want crickets and the whippoorwill, and the wide Ohio.
I want to know that the Hawaii I visited last year is still there, and that the little nurse sharks I saw years ago on a trip to Mexico are still okay, swimming in their beautiful turquoise home. I want to see the stars and the moon, and to smell the honeysuckle. I want to have the cherry blossoms float down around me in the spring, and the sour cherry pie for dessert.
I want (and am getting) a fried green tomato sandwich for lunch with some lovely aged cheddar and a bit of canned fruit. I want to spend the occasional summer evening sitting on the porch and watching the sunset, possibly because it's too blamed hot to do anything else, and the occasional winter day, curled up in my quilt, reading a good book and sometimes sipping a bit of mulled cider. (Probably because I've declared it too cold to do anything else. These temperature points are flexible, but important.)
And though I note I want these things, they're quite share-able. I have no problems with other folks enjoying the same sights and sounds, and there are only so many blackberries even I can eat. (Not to say I haven't tried... Mom has a picture of me at about 1 year experimenting with the possibilities of absorbing blackberries through hair and skin. She said my hair was a purply pink for a week after.)
So, where's mine?
But part of it is that I do want mine. I want my hills and my blackberries. I want my strawberries (the little ones that taste like strawberries, not the bloated bags of water you can get in January, for pity's sake) and my place in the land. I want the sweet corn that God placed on the earth to feed us, and the songbirds sent to cheer us. I want crickets and the whippoorwill, and the wide Ohio.
I want to know that the Hawaii I visited last year is still there, and that the little nurse sharks I saw years ago on a trip to Mexico are still okay, swimming in their beautiful turquoise home. I want to see the stars and the moon, and to smell the honeysuckle. I want to have the cherry blossoms float down around me in the spring, and the sour cherry pie for dessert.
I want (and am getting) a fried green tomato sandwich for lunch with some lovely aged cheddar and a bit of canned fruit. I want to spend the occasional summer evening sitting on the porch and watching the sunset, possibly because it's too blamed hot to do anything else, and the occasional winter day, curled up in my quilt, reading a good book and sometimes sipping a bit of mulled cider. (Probably because I've declared it too cold to do anything else. These temperature points are flexible, but important.)
And though I note I want these things, they're quite share-able. I have no problems with other folks enjoying the same sights and sounds, and there are only so many blackberries even I can eat. (Not to say I haven't tried... Mom has a picture of me at about 1 year experimenting with the possibilities of absorbing blackberries through hair and skin. She said my hair was a purply pink for a week after.)
So, where's mine?
posted by Plain Foolish | 10:02 AM
3 Comments:
Lovely post. The quiet is something to be shared as well. We could all share in it. We often kayak on the small lakes in western Montana. So very much I would like to see just one of those Lakes set aside for quiet water. Just one. No jet skis, no motors, just quiet craft. I want mine of the peace as well. Where are the places for the people who crave the quiet spaces? Is there room for us?
In Southeast Ohio, there is a portion of a lake set aside, mostly for practical reasons. You reach it through a tunnel, and I have long loved it. I've seen cranes there, and watched the waterbugs skitter over the water.
What you said, sister. What. You. Said.
I want the Worcester I grew up in, all quiet farms and woods and friendly houses on not-too-small lots. Not a lot of traffic and what there was would happily slow down for a pack of kids on bikes. Closest thing we came to a convenience store wsa the local pharmacy.
I don't have it any more, and not because I live a couple thound miles away. It's simply not there any more.
Now I want my beautiful unspoiled Colorado with the clean air and the mountains and the free open spaces and the herds of wild horses, and honestly I don't know how much longer I'm going to have that, either...
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