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Originally published 8/28/25 here. I wish I had been told the truth. The truth that we are one among many but unique in our need to resist our own impulses. Our ability to invent doesn't mean we have to invent. Our ability to bend earth and seed to our will doesn't mean we have to dominate them that way.  I would like a parable that instills in me conservation, preservation, and humility. Let the stars be the monarchs who travel so far with so little on their natural course.  Make them the gods of awe and us the servants of their nectar and protectors of their corridor. Let us make a festival of their weeds - butterfly and milk - and altars of the blazing stars on which they feast. In that story size does not matter, nor opposable thumbs and frontal lobes. No, it if beauty in antennae and wing, it is the cycle of borning and dying without hoarding or colonization.  Tell me a story where we give thanks at each meal not to a big daddy sky god but to soil and seed and the neighbors who we get to help feed. Tell me a story I can trust, one I can stake not only my life on but one that won't leave anyone staked through the heart. Tell me the truth and give me the tools to do right by it. 
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