“The Vegetarian Myth”

“I want my life— my body—to be a place where the earth is cherished. And I want eating— the first nurturance— to be an act that sustains instead of kills… How many rivers were dammed and drained, how many prairies plowed and forests pulled down, how much topsoil turned to dust and blown into ghosts? I want to know about all the species— not just the individuals, but the entire species— the chinook, the bison, the grasshopper sparrow, the grey wolves. And I want more than just the number of dead and gone. I want them back. In his book, Long Life, Honey in the Heart, Martin Pretchel writes of the Mayan people and their concept of kas-limaal, which translates roughly as, ‘mutual indebtedness, mutual insparkedness… the knowledge that every animal, plant, person, wind and season is indebted to the fruit of everything else is an adult knowledge. To get out of debt means you don’t want to be part of life, and you don’t want to grow into an adult…' The lesson here is obvious, though it is profound enough to inspire a religion: we need to be eaten as much as we need to eat. The grazers need their daily cellulose, but the grass also needs the animals. It needs the manure, with its nitrogen, minerals, and bacteria; it needs the mechanical check of grazing activity; and it needs the resources stored in animal bodies and freed up by degraders when animals die. The grass and the grazers need each other as much as predation and prey. There are not one-way relationships, not arrangements of dominance and subordination. We aren’t exploiting each other by eating. We are only taking turns. The tree isn’t offering sweetness out of the goodness of its heart… it’s striking a bargain, and even though we’ve shaken hands and collected, we aren’t carrying through on our side of the deal. The point of the fruit is not humans. The point is the seeds.  The reason that the tree expends such tremendous resources accumulating fibers and sugars is to secure the best possible future for its offspring. And we take that offspring, in its swaddling of sweetness, and kill it.” — Lierre Keith, The Vegetarian Myth

I was born with a rumen, a digestive system solely effective in breaking down plants and absorbing solar energy and other beneficial minerals. I have lived by plants alone this far in my life. In the primary forest is a menagerie of animals — from those whose tails loop around high boughs to those with enormous ears and flat feet on fours that pound the earth hard so trees could someday see their offspring seeds come to life — and I am one of them.  My family is cute. We have cubby faces and bouncy paws, love leaves and berries, love hanging out together, but not moving a lot, just eating leaves and then sleep sitting. One day when I had grown up, I discovered writing. And I started observing the forest.

The biodiversity of life is fantastic! With every chance I get to explore is a peculiar discovery and I made notes on everything I could describe. And the more my mind learned so much and organizing them seemed important, I started analyzing my data, began drawing movement corridors and maps, and connecting the dots— knowing full well about the nutrient cycle from the ground up and affecting all. I was particularly amazed about the endless search for food across species, and one point of interest to me was size versus diet nutrition. The entry into my curiosity was this question: Why are some large animals, like the Elephants and Giraffes, to name a few of similar constitution/condition, eat only grass or shrubs or shoots, yet still attain power and heft unbelievable in growth? Answer: rumen. Ruminating animals are gentle animals and tender to their young and herd, loyal and dutiful until death. In fact I followed a poignant story of a calf and its mum for a while and wrote about it. The youngster wasn’t the healthiest yet he liked to play water hose at the communal pond with mum, and always she was careful, but together they were always joyful. But this happiness didn’t last long. The herd, led by the mum, buried the boy in the same river bed now dried over due to the hot season in full force, and in a circle surrounding the boy a succession of lamentable songs amplified through the entire forest. His mum's song, her cry, I knew her voice, made my head fall to tears. I wanted him back, so bad. If only I could.

They say, and this I mean what earth has taught me, earth as a biological phenomenon with an ecological imperative, is that I became a writer because writing’s origin comes from the meaning of rumination, which is to think deeply. The foliage I consume excessively, they say, impregnates my mind with the marvelousness of the “seed of life” itself, that from this single point could flourish into an emerging ornamental of thoughts, and then blossom big red and white heart flowers. I may not be overthinking this, but I sure believe that one of these seeds the mum elephant “planted” on her way to play once with her boy, dormant for years in the forest, came to full life again.