A Letter from Gaia
My Children, You are going through a difficult time. The homely routine, the well-worn path, the familiar sunsets your grandparents saw… suddenly, everything changes, you get scared, you snarl at anyone who comes in range. I’ve seen these moods come and go. I’ve seen the pitiful suffering they bring, and 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: to build, or destroy. But your 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; there’s no problem there, I promise you. Nothing is so tiny that it doesn’t contain multitudes.
You thought your home was a patch of ground, a place you could keep safe with a fence and a gun.
But it has started to dawn on you that your home is nothing like that — because you have the power to harm my whole biosphere. This disturbs many of you. Some scream for stronger fences and bigger guns.
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 evolve and thrive in whatever conditions you leave for it.
You must stop clinging to your patches of ground. I offer plenty, more than enough, for all of you to thrive. 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.