The Writer as Farmer

Nights are pitch dark here.  Looking up at a wonderfully clear sky, I think of how few places today permit stars.  The sickly yellow-brown blur of cities has killed the most glorious God-given beauty of all.  With the stars has gone reverence, too, and maybe at least partly as a result of the same.

With all the technology, with all the pronouncements of advances, all the hype over things we own and with which we insulate ourselves in our hedonism, with all the self-congratulatory boasting about today’s “higher standard of living,” we no longer have the sheer staggering beauty of stars, a majesty so startling indeed that they awe to silence and wonder.  How many today have had the privilege to live this experience?  I offer a prayer of thanks for the blessing of stars.

The standard of living in our unhealthy day of enforced consumerism is measured by the number of commodes in a house, the number of house telephones, televisions, Jacuzzis and hot tubs, home offices to house computers and their assorted paraphernalia, the number of cars, the number of bays for them in the garage, the size of the swimming pool.  Gadgets galore is the foundation for this rawly materialistic way.

As I watch their stately progress, I conclude that, without stars, man should never be proud of his much-vaunted achievements.  Without them, such a “standard of living” should...

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