The plot

What if we are the middle of the story? What if our purpose is to someday be among the ancestors, as later generations say with quiet admiration: Thank you for giving us the world we have today. They say: The brave ones way back when ended the senseless deaths and thefts. They found a way to feed the desperate ones. They hobbled the monsters gobbling land who made the earth itself spit back.

Together these loving angry ancestors (that’s you) made an end of them.

What if your purpose here is not to hide inside a clapboard home with green-leaved eggplant (British friends, that’s aubergine) growing selfishly behind your backyard fence?

You throw up your hands and say: There’s nothing we can do. The people in pain are far away. Too far to help. Too poor to see. But.

What if indifference is your enemy, not your friend?

Monsters hide under all of our beds. Our yards can just as easily parch and wind can rip the roofs as readily from our neatly painted homes. Our creeks can dry up too, our limbs knot with disease. Dorothy came home, but was her house still there?

We are the middle of the story, not its end.

We are the ancestors. What will our children’s children’s children (they are all your children) whisper of us? Will they thank us that they have green beans for everyone?

What if the whispering earth invites us now to do what must be done? What if we stilled our churning fears by asking just: What do you need? What do you want? What do you dream about?

You are the plot.

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