A Letter from Gaia
My Children, You are going through a difficult time. The homely routine, the well-worn path, the sunsets your grandparents saw… suddenly, everything changes and you get scared. I’ve seen these moods come and go. I’ve seen the suffering they bring. I care about every single one of you, from paramecium to president.
If I seem to care more about the presidents, it’s only because, for a moment in time, they are given power. But their achievements are small to me. The Great Wall can be seen from outer space? Can it be seen from a light-year away? I am the tiniest speck of the great universe, yet I am vast.
You thought your home was a patch of ground, a place you could keep safe with a fence and a gun.
But your home is nothing like that.
You can hurt me, and you do: you pour drinking water on golf courses, while my children die of thirst. But you won’t kill me. Your momentary civilizations pass away as quickly as your television programs. Life will go on, with you or without you.
You must stop clinging to your patches of ground. I offer plenty, more than enough. Try not to give in to your fear.
Enjoy my land, my water and air; there is plenty left, if only you will stop trying to buy and sell it. Clinging to patches of ground, trying to force people to pay you for the chance to stand on them, can bring you nothing but grief.