It Is Enough. by Paige Coolman

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It Is Enough. by Paige Coolman

© 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission. The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author only and not those of York College of Pennsylvania. Design by Paige Coolman • Photography by Paige Coolman • Printed by www.blurb.com

It Is Enough. by Paige Coolman

“Only when we have become nonviolent towards all life will we have learned to live well with others.” 4

– Cesear Chavez

American farm worker and civil rights leader

Preface

“It all started a few months ago. A quiet stirring. A calling. An awakening.”

s I sit in my house, my cherished belongings adorning my walls, my shelves, my life, I just sit there. I sit on my leather couch; feet propped up and covered by my favorite cashmere throw, keeping me comfortably warm. In need of nothing. My lips touch the mug that I hold in my steady hands and my eyes look on. They look on towards the T.V. screen, and very uninterestedly, if I’m honest. The world is in shambles, and I’m quite unmoved. Issues and trending topics don’t affect me here. So, no, it doesn’t interest me that while I sit in my home, animals are shackled and pent up in cages, awaiting their death. And it doesn’t bother me that chicks are torn away from their mothers and ground up alive. And, pigs being boiled while still conscious, barely strikes a chord. It also doesn’t upset me to think about the over abundance of Genetically Modified Organism’s and

pesticide use, poisoning the mouths of our nation’s children. So, obviously, it doesn’t bother me much to see tragedies unfolding around the world, so long as I can turn the channel. The fact that the brutality of the world is taken out upon even the most innocent of these we live with leaves me mostly unmoved. Mostly. As long as I can turn the channel, or scroll past an uncomfortable image on the Internet, I can escape that nagging feeling in my gut. However, only a second’s hesitation will lead me into a moment of contemplation. A willingness to remain ignorant, while conscious or unconscious keeps me in a state of inaction, a state that most citizens remain comfortable. Cesear Chavez, an American farm worker and civil rights leader once said, “Only when we have become nonviolent towards all life will we have learned to live well with others.” So, it’s no

wonder that as a society we have ignorantly marauded about our land, plundering whatever resources, living or not, that we can. But, how could we possibly hope for a more peaceful and tolerant world if we fail at the most basic humane tasks. Should we even be surprised? Could it be possible that living like Chavez proposed could help us to radically change the way we view the world, a re-wiring of sorts? Could living with compassion for all of God’s creation bring about a more compassionate world, a kinder one in which we respect the trees, land and animals that He has given us to care after? I am startled from my thoughts so I quickly turn the channel. So onward I go, a single thought, a seed, planted in my brain. I get up off the couch and walk around. I’m restless and disturbed. I take a shaky sip out of my mug. This time, a gulp. 7

The

Trees “They are pillars of resilience, having to face the inherent will of man to destroy them.”

e sat in the car, my dad and I. Myself in the driver’s seat, face hunched as far over the steering wheel as I could, eyes squinting at every side road we passed. We were on some back road in the town of Lewisberry, not far from where I grew up in Pennsylvania; yet, I didn’t know where I was. My eyes strained looking for the opening of the park, a small side road jutted out on my left. We drove into the park as the tops of the trees crowded in around us.

ness, taunting me like a word stuck at the tip of my tongue, but never remembered. As I look around, I can still see the images of kids laughing like a transparent vision in front of me, no sound still, just faces. I can feel my grandpa beside me, arms bumping together as we walk: a strange thing to remember, because I barely knew him. Which makes me wonder even more, “What brought us here together so many years ago?” All I know is that I’ve never been here much after that.

A vague childhood memory, possibly one of my earliest, flitted across my vision: picnic tables holding kids shoulder to shoulder, the blinding sun –so bright–, some spare quarters left on the pavement, my grandpa and his mother. There is no sound anymore, just motion. Could that have been here? I can’t remember.

I walk further into the tree line. The park grounds seem so quiet at this time of the year and hauntingly so. My mind wanders to the massive trees now enclosing me. The most elder trees must be hundreds of years old, judging by some of the massive stumps that jut out of the landscape. And it speaks to me, the trees do. They have been here longer than I, yet I walk along their dirt path, kicking stones out of my way making more room for myself.

I pull into a parking spot as I scan the lawn in front of me. Empty picnic tables and quiet water embody the stillness of the park. Still, I get out and I walk the grounds, scanning my brain for remnants of a memory that waits at the edge of my conscious8

This forest, which cradles me now, holds within it one of my earliest memories, barely remembered. One in which I’m the only

person left who even could remember. Except these trees. They have come before me and they will be here after me. Silently waiting. They are beacons of strength, having to face the harsh elements of the changing seasons. They are pillars of resilience, having to face the inherent will of man to destroy them. I walk back out to the edge of the dirt path. I’m woken out of my thoughts by the sound of laughter. This time, from my own child, running around one of the stumps of an ancient tree. Her squeals and my father’s laughs animate my thoughts. Suddenly, I recognize the same sunlight –so blinding– the same picnic tables, empty, but reminders of the people that will come back. Not my grandfather, but my daughter’s grandpa. All with sound and all with motion. A smile darts across my face as I run to them. And it starts again. Another memory captured by the forest in which we stand, a forest that stands during a time where the beauty and necessity of the woodlands is no longer revered.

Gifford Pinchot, the man that this park is named for, was once a man that had no concern for the woodlands. After all, he came from a family that made their money by exploiting the land. His father, a successful New York City wallpaper merchant, secured the Pinchot family fortune through lumbering and land speculation. However, it wasn’t until the late 19th century that Pinchot’s father had a change of heart. Perhaps, he was burdened by the damage that his business had on the environment. We’ll never know, but from thenceforth, he urged a younger Pinchot, fresh out of Yale and a member of the infamous Skull and Bones society, to study conservationism and forestry. After completing college, Pinchot studied as a graduate student at the French National School of Forestry in Nancy, France. With a vigor for conservatism, he plunged into developing a national forestry policy. Without the burden of having to maintain a full-time job to support himself, Pinchot was able to devote all of his time into the cause of sustainable forestry. He would eventually became known as a practical forester, one who loved the forests, not because they were beautiful but because he believed responsible resource harvesting could help boost the American economy. Pinchot’s views on forestry and conservation differed greatly from other conservationists of his time, such as John Muir. The two had many public disagreements over important conservationist ideals of the day. Pinchot, a pragmatist, called Muir a romanticist. Muir, a passionate environmentalist called Pinchot a businessman. Either way, Gifford Pinchot made his mark on the American conservation movement during the progressive era by claiming that scientific management of forests and natural resources was profitable and if done responsibly, was safe for the environment. This was much to the distain of others, who believed that commercial forestry was a dangerous and slippery slope. Even so, Pinchot would go on to serve two terms as Governor of Pennsylvania and would go down in the history books as the father of modern forestry. I finish reading aloud from the informational sign placed by the water. The picture of Pinchot in his forester’s cap stare back at me, old and faded. As I walk away, I take one final look back at the water, the sunlight now sparkling across the ripples of the lake, the only movement to be seen. The details and minutia of Pinchot’s life and dedication to his cause reverberate in my head. To think, a man of such great importance, who didn’t need to break from his lifestyle of comfort and luxury, chose to forge a new path within his family, and the nation. What would have happened if he hadn’t? Surely, someone else would have. But, how long? Pinchot seemed to feel this way. He understood that there could be no more waiting. The responsibility that he bore to the environment shook him out of his lifestyle and into a place of change. I think on these things as we walk back up the hill to my parked car. What was I called to do, if anything? The day was

ending and the sun was in our eyes, leaving far-stretched shadows behind us. My daughter and I walked hand in hand as my father and I exchanged stories of times past. I take one last look around as I duck into the driver’s seat. I am grateful to Pinchot, he preserved this place. I could understand why he worked so hard to protect the woodlands, I understood what he found in them: a peace, a hope, a calming sense of serenity. And a place like this, in the majesty of the outdoors, amidst the miraculous creation of God, memories so fond and dear can take on a mesmerizing quality. I pull out of the park and back onto the main road, Pinchot’s trees speckled my car with the last bits of the day’s sunlight. A farewell of sorts. We were out from under the impressive reach of those towering trees, soon just series of tiny, organic marks in my rear view mirror. As I drop down over the next hill, they disappear completely.

Empty picnic tables surrounded by trees wait for visitors to inhabit them again. The grounds of Gifford Pinchot State Park lay still in October. 12

One tree of many, overlooks the water. A tiny acorn lays atop the stump of an ancient tree.

The bark of a timeworn tree faces into the sunlight.

Vacant benches stand in between the trees, waiting at the edge of the water. 16

Sipping on my whole-fat latte and nibbling the edge of my Egg McMuffin, I sit at a red light in wait. My mother to my right. To my left wait a handful of people on the cement slab that serves as the median. They wait to make eye contact with me, as if asking permission to walk. A mother stands with her child at her side, a protective hand over her chest, as if telling her to stay back. A man, business casual, stares down at his phone, a small glimmer of white sock pokes out from the hem of his trousers, slightly too short. Some people wait behind them, unnoticed. I wave them on with a smile and they start walking in front of me. All the while, I reflect upon the stillness of yesterday, at the park. Quite different from today, myself settled in between hoards of people instead of trees. People all juxtaposed against a skyline of industry instead of mountains; the skyline of our ever-industrious city, rapidly growing and expanding, eating up the land and never giving it back. Layers upon layers of factories, loud and smoky, produce for the masses, always taking, rarely putting back. Much different from the simplicity that lay within the park, yesterday. Tall city buildings spring up in place of the trees that I stood under. Instead of the wind rustling through branches, I hear car horns screaming, traffic passing and the noise of pedestrians. Could it be possible that we have taken something so precious and tested its limits? Exploited it? It could be argued that John Muir felt the same. As a passionate conservationist, and foe of Gifford Pinchot as mentioned above, John Muir spent his life fighting the excesses of the world. He tried to defend the border of where nature ended and human interference began. He believed in letting the beauty of a pure earth remain pure, unadulterated by man. John Muir was a Scottish born naturalist, environmentalist, philosopher, author, and one of the most well known advocates for the preservation of wilderness, specifically the Western U.S.. After immigrating to the U.S. as a child, Muir went on to study intermittently at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where he would fall in love with nature – truly, his first love. Muir studied many different topics during his years at college, but, he never graduated with a degree, serving as a testament to Muir’s curious mind and his unwillingness to conform to the standards that modern society had laid out for him. Which was a trait he would illustrate throughout his life. Instead, after college, he chose to live amongst the trees. He particularly favored the Sierra Nevada valley region. In fact, Muir was the catalyst for the recognition of the Yosemite Valley as a state park, and eventually a federal one. Muir also went on to co-found the Sierra Club, which is still in existence today and continues to champion for environmental causes. One of the many things that separated Muir from his fellow colleagues was the notion that the forests an woodlands needed to be “protected” and not just “conserved”. This is where he differed greatly from Gifford Pinchot, who believed that the forests could and should be respectfully and conservatively used in the American Lumber industry as a way to boost the economy. However, Muir, who understood that logging was inevitable and somewhat necessary, refused to see the forests in this light. Instead, the forests took on a spiritual nature to him. He felt

most at home in the forests and had even said that he felt he better understood the mind of God when he was surrounded by nature. To Muir, spirituality and nature went hand in hand and he defended to his dying day, the idea that sometimes things are better left as they were. Later that night as I sat in my home, curled up with my favorite blanket, cup of tea to my left and my Macbook warming the tops of my legs, I pondered, “Could caring for our environment really lead us to a kinder world, similar to what Cesear Chavez hinted at? Or better yet, could environmentalism just be a way to lead us back to the world that God wanted us to live in originally? Could living an environmentally kind and conscious life help our world come back to its true roots - one in which we find our humanity through God and the world He has given us to live in?” This is something that I have been contemplating for a few weeks now, the ability for man to change his surroundings for the better. And, how exactly would he do that? But, this isn’t an entirely new idea. Recently, over the past few years, diets and ideologies such as the The Kind Life, by Alicia Silverstone and The Honest Company, by Jessica Alba, have soared with enormous popularity. A new culture of organic and good-for-you products are becoming more mainstream, which makes a conversation such as this, easier to have. But, regardless of its newfound prominence, it is still an individual journey that each person must decide for themselves. Just on my Facebook news feed, scenes from across the world jut out from the screen into my living room, uninvited. They scream for action. At the very least, they scream for acknowledgement. I feel the first flares of movement within my soul. A small desire is starting up, flickering, but not quite there yet. I recognize that the time has come. I am ready for a change. If only I could take the first step.

The skyline of our ever-industrious cities: rapidly growing and expanding, eating up the land and never giving it back. A visible reminder of the interference of man and its environment. 20

The streets bustle with the activity of people, all coming and going, rarely stopping to take in the beauty of the natural world. 22

Antiquated buildings stand tall amongst the outline of the city. 23

The

Land M

y car door slams shut as I swing my camera bag over my arm, the weight digging into my right shoulder. As I walk onto a nearby gravel path towards the Welcome center for the Rodale Institute, I take in the air of the nature around me. My eyes scan the fields for miles, and take in the vegetables and fruits that seem to be growing at every turn. In the distance I can hear the sound of some hogs, their grunts echoing through the fields. A furry house cat wraps itself around my ankle meowing as I swing open the door to the Welcome center. Inside, the shop overwhelms my senses. The smell of incense or essential oils surrounds me. Small little shelves with an assortment

of all natural soaps, condiments and seeds are laid out for sale. An impressive selection of books on sustainable farming methods sits to the left of the checkout. As I walk through the center of the shop, the cashier greets me, and gives a small history about the land. The Rodale Institute was founded in 1947 by J.I. Rodale, who was a pioneer in organic farming and sustainable farming methods. Prior to WW1, there was very few farmers that were growing crops organically, but Rodale was one of these. During WW2, when nitrogen fertilizers were becoming harder and harder to find due to the increase in munitions for the war, Rodale realized there was a lack of nutrition in natural soil due to pesticide use. Thus, his mission began: to study and implement techniques for rebuilding the soil’s natural fertility using organic methods. With this information, he created the Soil and Health Foundation, which would later be named the Rodale institute. Over the next few generations of the Rodale family, their mission remained the same, to research ways to create healthy soil, to create healthy food to feed healthy people. This has been the driving force behind the Rodale Institute’s 333-acre farm in Kutztown, PA since it opened in 1971. At the farm, classes about sustainable farming practices, such as composting, are taught frequently, community

“It is in this place where the land of the Rodale Institute becomes more than a science project, it becomes a way of life.”

I grab a tour pamphlet and I head back out the door. As I walk down the embankment from the Welcome center to my first stop, rows and rows of small plants stand before me. Herbs, tomatoes, various peppers and some flowers all grow here and at select times are open to be picked by members of the community. Essences of dill and cilantro, pepper the air. Not far behind that, tomatoes, ripe and un-ripe, hang from their stalks, some speckle the ground with their over-ripe and squashed bodies. A couple rows of colorful daisy-like flowers all line up against the backdrop of silos and storage buildings. In the distance I can hear farm equipment rattling and clinking, seemingly from everywhere at once. Behind me stands a barn structure that houses many organically-fed pigs; fat and happy - free to roam in their oversized pens that span as far as the eye can see. All of the livestock on the farm are heritage breeds that have been deemed at-risk by the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy. A further walk up the road leads me to the humming of Honeybees, all in a field with strange looking wooden structures at places. The Honeybee conservatory, where many nest are held, even nests belonging to members of the local community, was established in 2012 when the decimation of local Honeybee populations prompted the Rodale Institute into action. The Institute often holds classes on backyard beekeeping. Even further back into the farm and off to the right, mounds and mounds of natural compost lay in columns, waiting to be used to nourish crops. This is the area that is dedicated to the research of organic composting and other farming techniques. Classes are frequently held to teach organic composting techniques on every level, from the backyard gardener to the seasoned farmer. It is in the art of composting that the true heart of the Rodale Institute lays. A heart that is filled with the truths and goodness of the land, one in which a desire to put back into the soil is greater than the desire to take from it. And this is no more literally displayed than in the act of organic composting – where nutrients can find there way back in to the soil to nourish the soil for generations to come, therefore, nourishing the food they produce. It’s a simple theory, really. But, it’s a theory that runs contrary to modern farming. Instead of adding pesticides to the crops and the land to produce a more bountiful crop, the Rodale Institute believes that they can nourish the soil in such a way through composting, that they can care for the soil, which will care for their crops. In addition to composting, the farm goes on endlessly for as far as the eye can see with more crops and more plant beds that serve additional research purposes. The most beautiful of which caught my eye: the demonstration gardens. The demonstration gardens were created in 1974 to showcase the most basic organic gardening techniques and methodologies. A picturesque offshoot of the rest of the farm, it seems that this area is dedicated to highlight the beauty that the land is capable of producing. As charming as a spread out of a Martha Stewart magazine, the demonstration gardens hold countless species of flowers, many in full bloom at my visit.

As I meander through the gardens, I stoop down to look at the species placards. And I notice again a cat following me. Perhaps the same cat as when I arrived at the welcome center. It has followed me all over this place: through the fruit and vegetable gardens, by the composting area and now here. He only stops to rub its neck upon a hearty branch or roll over on a warm stone. He finally comes up to me purring slightly, his fur warm to the touch. I pet him and smile, it’s certainly not a bad place to live, I think to myself. I stand back up and take one final look around the farm before heading back. The day was starting to wind down and the once bright sun was setting into the leaves of the trees behind me. As I walk back up the hill to where my car is parked, I pass an old barn. It’s worn with chipped white paint hanging off of it, but it’s now used to sell organic produce grown on the farm. I hurriedly walk past the entrance with my head down, trying to get back to my car, when I’m stopped by the sound of laughter. Intrigued, I turn around quickly, my hair blowing back in my face, my cheeks starting to get rosy with the onset of evening wind. I watch as a dozen people, all different ages and backgrounds, stand side by side, packing various vegetables and fruits into their used and worn brown paper bags, some with reusable bags already with them. They laugh together, some with kids at their side, as the pack the goodness of the farm into their bags and home to their families. It is in this place where the land of the Rodale Institute becomes more than a science project, it becomes a way of life.

A meditating frog sits as a watchtower of health and vitality.

Grain silos watch over the fields of the Rodale Institute.

The Botanical Gardens host a variety of herbs and flowers. 30

Layers of plants and herbs blanket the fields. 31

Compost piles help to nourish the earth naturally.

Cows and Bulls are free to roam their God-given land.

Tomatoes grow in fields designed for community picking. Commnity members gather to buy their organic, locally grown produce. 34

The

Animals “It’s an uphill battle, and a mostly thankless one. Unless you count the sloppy animal kisses you are bound to get while there.” 36

strain my neck to look backwards over my right shoulder, while my body stays forward, my hand keeps the gas nozzle firmly in place. But the screams are too loud and coming from everywhere all at once. I squint my eyes as I try to make eye contact with its source. Grunting and wheezing noises reverberate and bounce off of all the metal of the cars and pumping stations. Sounds clash loudly over my car like a thunderstorm cloud, until they are finally carried off by the wind, across the highway to my left, rolling over the cars and semi-trucks, all heading south.

for carrying livestock. Inside, pigs are crammed shoulder to shoulder throughout the entire expanse of the truck. The ones in the middle try unsuccessfully to cram their way to the outside, for a chance to breathe some fresh air from the tiny round holes in the side of the trailer. The ones on the outside stick their snouts as far through the holes as possible, trying to get some fresh air or the fleeting presence of a cool wind. The truck parks itself on the outskirts of the parking lot, pigs still screaming. I didn’t dare go any closer. Their noises frightened me. Surely they know they were on their way to the slaughterhouse.

I squint my eyes even tighter to see just what I was hearing. Rolling into the gas station was a large semi-truck with small holes cut from the side of its cargo area. It was a truck designed

The pigs that were lucky enough to be on the outside of the truck continue gasping for fresh air. Their mouths are dry and their bodies are thirsty. The heat inside of the trailer must be sweltering.

However, any accommodations which would make them comfortable are not granted to animals on their way to death. If only I could give them a moment of comfort, even a drink of water to cool their hot throats. Their pain ellicits a visceral response in myself and I find it unbearable to watch. Suddenly, the lever on the gas nozzle clicks and snaps me back to reality. I screw my gas cap back on and take one more look back at the pigs. As I head back out of the gas station, I decide against McDonalds. I don’t think I’m getting that a Ham, Egg and Cheese McMuffin anymore.

The wind blusters past my windows as I drive up the dirt path that leads to the Farm Animal Rescue of Mifflinburg (F.A.R.M.), in Mifflinburg, PA. Small gravel rocks crunch beneath my tires. As I come to a stop, no sooner is the owner of the rescue, Roy Hernesh, walking out to greet me. I quickly gather my things, throw my camera over my shoulder and extend my hand to shake his. In the hilly landscape of Mifflinburg, this little rescue, started by Roy Hernesh and his wife, Lorie, has spread and prospered in just three years. What once started out as barren land soon took in its first animals - two goats - and over the next few years and five acres of land, multiple animals started coming to F.A.R.M. to find a place to retire in peace. However, Roy makes a point to mention that his “rescue” is not the typical rescue. It’s something he repeats several times throughout my visit. It’s actually more of a sanctuary, which is a place where animals are adopted permanently to live out their lives in one place. This is different from most rescues which will often adopt out their animals to other rescues or sanctuaries, moving them around endlessly. Something which is emotionally draining to the animals. Seeing the animals interacting in their herds like they would be in the wild, something called herd-mentality, helps bring home the notion that these animals do create bonds. They do feel basic emotions, such as fear and very possibly complex emotions, such as love. Which is even more reason to fight to keep the herd together whenever possible, something that the F.A.R.M. strives to do. And it’s not hard to see the individual personalities of the animals. Each goat, llama, mini horse and thoroughbred has their own story. While all the animals are friendly some are notably more shy than others. The outgoing ones clamor around my knees with their wet noses nudging my hand. But the shy ones stay to the back, some only peaking out from behind their living structures, just to look at me, the stranger invading their space. While Roy generally knows where each animal on his farm comes from, some of their backgrounds are a little hazy. He suspects that some may have been mildly neglected, while others, he thinks are just naturally reclusive, possibly as a result of never being able to form long lasting human bonds due to frequent relocation. Whatever the case, the animals are grateful to be here now, something that’s evident by the way that all the animals, even the shy ones run up to Roy as he enters their living spaces. Even if they only take a quick look at me and then run away. But the animals are safe here and they know it. No longer will they face the possibility of being moved from human to human, never being able to settle down, never being able to bond with anyone, human or animal. Or worse, they will never have to worry about being used for their bodies, either the milk they could produce or the meat they could provide. Even though the animals here are not the typical farm animal, except for the select few goats, in a different culture or country all these animals could all eventually end up on the chopping block, and their instincts know this. So, just to have a place for these animals, where the philosophy of treating all of God’s creation with dignity and respect stands firm, is a success.

This is something that Roy mentions is rather difficult in this area of Pennsylvania. In an around Mifflinburg, Pennsylvania, the perception of a sanctuary, or even a rescue is not always a welcome one. Here and in areas like this, the people, who many of whom are farmers or know someone who is, view these animals as merely a product - either eggs, milk or meat. and its hard to change those ideals. All that can be done is educate the people and try to instill a little bit more compassion in every person that walks these fields. In fact, that is one of the F.A.R.M.’s strategies. In order to help educate the local public and bring attention to their animals and their cause, the F.A.R.M. often hosts local elementary school classes for a day in which kids can experience animals in a way that many of them never had. It’s during this time that the F.A.R.M. stresses the importance of taking care of these animals, because they do have emotions like us and can experience the feeling of hot or cold, pain or pleasure, happiness and sadness. And that’s half the battle, preaching to a forlorned people about the needs of animals that many view as secondary, or trivial, even. To change the perception of the farm animal in the eyes of the American public, isn’t easy, but the F.A.R.M. is doing it’s part. It’s an uphill battle, and a mostly thankless one. Unless you count all the sloppy animal kisses you are bound to get while there.

A herd of llamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stand watch over their fields. 40

Rescued miniature horses graze the fields of their sanctuary. 41

Two goats watch intently from their private enclosure. 42

Unlike most farm animals, these goats will live out their life in peace. With no chance of slaughter. 43

A rescued thouroughbred, King, retired after nearly 20 years on the racetrack.

Curious llamas roam the grounds of their spacious retirement home. 44

Conclusion I

pick up my heavy feet, one step at a time. Reaching my front door at the top of the steps, I take long shaky breaths. The cold cuts through my body, making my lungs hurt as my hand rustles around in my handbag, fumbling for my keys. I open the door and the warm air hits my face and my body starts to relax as my shivering muscles calm. I drop my bags and open up my laptop. My face stares at the blank screen.

Throughout some people’s lives they will seek out a way in which to put their mark on the world and build their legacy. But I’ve wondered, “Could not leaving a mark of your existence, be the greatest mark of all? Could living a environmentally kind and conscious life help our world come back to its true roots – one in which we find our humanity through God and the world He has given us to live in?”

And I stare for a while. What could I say after all this? Thoughts from the last few months race through my mind without slowing down. While still not a clearly defined path, yet not a blurry as before, I am starting to see where I stand in all of this, what my role could be, or never would be.

I know that any change that I could make would be minuscule compared to the humanitarians on the front lines, in places like the middle east and elsewhere. Or the environmentalists doing their part in front of congress, struggling to have their ideas heard. I know that my part is small, but I have to believe that the collective voices of all our small choices can create an unimaginable speakerphone of truth. One which is able to echo off the tallest mountaintops and reverberate through the lowest valleys in the unconscious mind of man, changing opinions and actions. But, even if all that will never happen, it is enough for myself to know that I did not turn a blind eye. That I did not sit idly by. While there were changes to be made, I was willing to step up, for the betterment of my self and my world to try and make those changes and inspire those around me.

I have had a lot of time for self-exploration and reflection. And what I know is this: As a Christian I believe that God, a triune divine entity, created this world for us to live in. At one time it was even perfect. It didn’t last long and humanity has been in cascading downwards ever since. But could we ever get back to that? In short, no. We will never be able to live in a land like the first inhabitants of this earth did. But we can find ways to live kindly, peacefully even foster friendships between radically different groups of people, animals included.

The feeling that no amount of change that I could offer would come close to being able to combat the ills of the world, is a dangerous place to be. Then, I remember what Jesus said to his apostles in Matthew 19:26, “But Jesus looked at them and said to them, ‘With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” With this in mind, I know that making changes, big or small, in the direction that is more harmonious with God’s will for my life will never go unnoticed, at least by Him. And that is really what this is all about, finding my truth in the midst of all the rubble of the earth. Finding a way to live in which I feel is the most congruous with Jesus’ teaching of love and charitable giving, all while being able to lay my head down at night, knowing that I have strived to eradicate any of my own contributions to the violence and hurt that plague our society. That, is what I’m searching for. I look up from my computer and for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m starting to figure it out - who I am, and what I stand for. And that is enough.

Find Out

The services that these organizations provide for their communities and animals arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cheap. Most is done by donations and volunteer service. If you would like to learn more about volunteer opportunites or how to donate to this cause, please reach out!

Gifford Pinchot State Park

The Rodale Institute

Farm Animal Rescue of Mifflinburg

Lewisberry, PA 17365 717.432.5011

611 Siegfriedale Rd Kutztown, PA 195309320 610.683.1400

PO Box 30 Mifflinburg, PA 17844 570.966.3175

Website

dcnr.state.pa.us/stateparks/findapark/giffordpinchot

rodaleinstitute.org

farmanimalrescueofmifflinburg.org

Donate

paparksandforests.org/support

donate.rodaleinstitute.org

farmanimalrescueofmifflinburg.org/donate

Volunteer

volunteers.dcnr.state.pa.us/index

julie.kelly@rodaleinstitute.org

farmanimalrescueofmifflinburg.org/volunteer

BACK COVER

“Only when we have become nonviolent towards all life will we have learned to live well with others.” Cesear Chavez, an American farm worker and civil rights leader The placeholder ISBN below is to show you where the ISBN will be printed on your book. All Could it be possible that living like Chavez Trade proposed could this help usIfto change the way we view the world, a re-wiring Books require ISBN. youradically have chosen not to include an ISBN on your Photo Book or of sorts? Could living with compassion for all of God’s creation bring about a more compassionate world, a kinder one in which we Magazine, you may ignore this placeholder.

respect the trees, land and animals that He has given us to care after? In this writing, I explore this topic along with the most inportant question, “Where do I fit in all of this?”