Apocalypse Fatigue

     It is a rainy morning in the country. I begin it as I do every morning with espresso and a walk through the grass between the garden trees and flowers. Passing the vegetables, I arrive at the chicken coop and let the girls graze in the yard. All eight of them strut behind me before something else draws their attention. I head toward my writing shed beyond the corn and beans and squash and melons and peppers and tomatoes. I’m happy to have them in this first year despite the squash being the only prolific vegetable from this exploited farmland. Now we can see the path to regenerate it and are happy to have something to work toward.

Through the split in the tree line, I can see hundreds of acres of wheat that have made room for soy. Across from them are another hundred of corn. The vastness, wet from either the rain or dew, reflects the almighty beauty of the morning sun. The fog has begun to rise. This walk from the chicken coop to my shed has become a privilege of pastoral beauty. I contemplate this paradox often. Violence fills the fields. It poisons the land and water. Its harvest poisons everything that consumes it. Yet, despite man’s agricultural attempt to control nature, these fields still represent her. They are a magnificent photosynthesis that leave me paralyzed with reverence. While I harvest six zucchinis—a bounty for my family—I turn my head to see ten thousand ears of corn growing from their towering stalks. Sometimes it nearly overwhelms me to tears. I turn away from it. It is before 6 AM, yet I’m already left feeling the staggering weight of the human paradox. But it’s not too much for me today. Today I am strong.

Our time is so small with the countable days between our births and deaths. To understand something’s weight, we measure it. We then deduce the need for change and implement it. It is no wonder to me that creation, immeasurable, alludes us. Mama watches us with bemusement as if we are children jumping in puddles that she knows will dry. She leaves us to our play. She will consume our temporal agriculture, and out of that, something new will be born. The acres upon acres of wheat, soy, and corn is our greatest performance. The fecundity of man.

I am not worried about this planet. We cannot destroy it any more than Mercury, Venus, Mars, or our Moon can be considered destroyed. Each holds its wonder. Humanity will have long passed into nothingness.

My concern is that of violence. I am not prone to tolerate the actions of others that create it, by destroying the beauty of life, and the gift of life itself. I know that Mama will always transcend the smallness of man. It is man that steals the beauty of nature from me, not nature herself. And it is this murderous man that I will forever battle.

“The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we shall have for destruction.”

-Rachel Carson