A Caterpillar and a Rose

The sky looks muted and powdery today. There’s a thunderstorm approaching. I can usually tell when the ground outside is wet and I can’t figure out where the clouds begin and end, cloaking the sky like a thick blanket of dust. Next to me, my mother left three roses, attached by the same stem in a glass of water. The leaves on these roses are partially eaten away, and when I look closely I see the smallest green caterpillar curled up on one of the leaves. He’s about half of an inch long, and a centimeter wide. He seems to react to the sound of my fingers typing on the keyboard.

What a time to be alive. Every person who ever graced the earth must have thought that same thought. I don’t think I can eat animals anymore, because even when I look at this small little caterpillar, I’m afraid that if I touch him it might hurt, and I don’t want to have a negative impact on his life.

We call America the land of the free, but that’s a diluted statement. The cows and the chickens that live on our land are not free. They called America the land of the free when black people were slaves and women couldn’t vote, and Chinese women were forced into prostitution in California. When I think about the pain that came before me my eyes well up and little storms explode from my tear ducts. I want to reverse pain that has been inflicted on this earth. I want to make light of the darkness and live simply, happily. I like being home. I feel in touch with myself, with my spirituality, with the earth.

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