Is there anything more sacred than ripe strawberries from your own little veggie garden, or watching the runner beans breaking through the soil to experience their first taste of sunlight, or smelling the newly planted sweet basil, rocket and parsley, or the expectancy of a little crop of maize, or the forest floor smell coming from your compost heap, or the sheer joy of growing your own tomatoes, chillies, lettuce, spring onions, beetroot, radish and Chinese cabbage?
No wonder the Book of God starts off with God being in a garden. Sowing, planting, growing and creating.
And then God looked at Homo sapiens and said: This is your home. Get your hands dirty! You’ll find joy in what you do.
But somewhere, with the help of shopping malls, plastic bags and pesticides we lost our earthly connection with Creation and its Creator. We’ve evolved into specie that relates better to lifeless, plastic, shiny metal stuff, than with earth, water, wind and fire.
No wonder we give a shit about life on earth.
Until you start to get compost and dirt underneath your fingernails, until you eat an entire meal out of your own little patch of life, until you reconnect with the way the seasons change and life grows and dies before your eyes, until then you’ll be fine with having carrots out of a plastic bag,