You are going through a difficult time. Some of you realize that this sort of thing has happened before. The homely routine, the well-worn path, the familiar sunsets your grandparents saw -- and suddenly, seemingly all in a day, everything changes, you get scared, you hold on to what you thought was your own, you snarl at anyone who comes in range. I've seen these moods come and go. I've seen the pitiful suffering and destruction 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 great things, or destroy them. But your greatest achievements are small to me. The Great Wall of China, can be seen from outer space? Can it be seen from four light-years away? From a million? I am vast; you can't wrap your mind around me -- yet I am the tiniest speck of the great universe. There's no problem there, I promise you. Nothing is so tiny that it doesn't contain multitudes.
You panic as it dawns on you that your home is nothing like that.
Your first inkling of the truth came when you began to see that my whole biosphere, my health, could be changed, wounded, by your collective actions, on your patches of ground. I say changed, yes -- even wounded -- but not killed. You will not kill me. Your momentary civilizations, your television programs, even your great works of art, may pass away, but my life will continue. Life will evolve and thrive in whatever conditions you leave for it. I have no fear.
I see that you are disturbed by this truth that has begun to dawn on you. You're disturbed enough to buy expensive airtime and hold huge rallies to proclaim your denial of it.
The ones among you who hog the bandwidth, gather the loudest crowds, are those who cling tightest to their patches of ground, calling for stronger fences and bigger guns. Cut from the carcass, can you distinguish pork from human meat? What kind of bacon are you cooking on your gun barrel?
Let me say again: I have no fear. You won't kill me. You'll hurt me, yes: you're hurting me now. You pour drinking water on golf courses, while children die of thirst. But I tell you it is for your sake, not mine, that you must stop clinging to your patches of ground.
I offer plenty, more than enough, for all of you to thrive -- but not with fences, not with guns. Try not to give in to your fear. See the playground bullies for the pathetic losers they are; don't let them lead you.
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.
I wish you peace.