Marcus emptied food scraps into the composter and raised his eyes. “Master,” he asked, “why do we make the soil?”
The old man nodded patiently. “The soil outside is not natural. It is made of the dust and smoke of humanity. Lead, mercury, arsenic: these are the spoor of humanity. To us this is unclean. Making soil is a ritual of devotion in the service of nature.”
Marcus scowled as he filled a pail from the condenser. “Master, why do we make the water?”
The old man absently cracked a knuckle. “The water outside is not natural. It is full of the piss of humanity, and carries the drugs and poisons from which humanity is made. Every animal, every plant that drinks this water cannot fail to take on the smell of humanity. To us this is unclean. Making water is a ritual of devotion in the service of nature.”
Marcus’s voice was muffled because he was bent low breaking leaves from a bush. “Master, why do we grow the tea?”
The old man held out a basket to catch the leaves. “The tea outside is not natural. Bees carry pollen from engineered plants and spread it promiscuously. The children carry the signature of the maker, as if the engineer had mated with the plant. To us this is unclean. Growing tea is a ritual of devotion in the service of nature.”
Marcus stretched his weary muscles and peered around at the walls of the cave. “Master, why do we fear the sky?”
The old man made a vague gesture of blessing toward the lights overhead. “The sky outside is not natural. The light of the sun is bent by the farts and exhalations of humanity. Every sight, every sound is twisted and rendered unclean. Making air, making light: These are rituals of devotion in the service of nature.”
Marcus poured boiling water over dried leaves in the pot and placed the kettle into the autoclave. “Master,” he asked, “why do we drink tea?”
Their hands full of pots and cups, master and disciple walked together toward the meditation hall. After a moment’s thought the old man said, “We drink tea to make ourselves mindful. Only within ourselves can we find wilderness. Drinking tea is a ritual of devotion in remembrance of this.”
Marcus held out a hand and forced the old man to pause. “But master,” he said. “Is it not true that by speaking to you I alter the wilderness within? Is it then not the case that this wilderness also bears the imprint of humanity?”
The old man grinned broadly and resumed his walk. “That, my son, is the essence of faith.”
Image CC-BY-NC by nchenga