Another Sunday befalls us.
It occurs to me that if I take gardening gloves on my 7am walk with the dog and pick up a handful of garbage before each bin, and drop it in, my life on this earth is not entirely wasted.
A good feeling is born, which mingles with the dew and dawn, and makes the surrounding nature more aesthetically pleasing. Just a little each day, and oh, how much easier on the eyes is the undergrowth.
A crushed Monster can gives way to new-born nettles. A plastic Golden Wonder wrapper makes way for baby trees. A rusting tin can from aeons before, somehow disgorged from the soil since yesterday, succumbs to human hand and creates a safe space for fresh, green, dew-drop laden blades of grass to reach for the carbon enriched air, and, by merely doing what it does, convert it, molecule by molecule, to oxygen.
What if we are just aliens on an alien planet with alien problems?
Overcrowding, pollution and over-consumption of food and raw materials. It must happen to every species in a confined space eventually.
But for the meanwhile, it truly feeds the soul to cast one's gaze around the nature-scape and find it litter-free, reminded not of humanity's foibles, but of Mother Earth's simple beauty.
