When weighed down with disappointment over failure in some particular endeavor, or with loathing of the idiocies of the human race (including my own), or simply over the passing of time and the inevitability of death, I find that such despondency disappears when I am working in the garden or in the woods, or listening to music I love, especially natural music. I wonder if it would help suicidal people to spend lots of time in the garden, doing the meaningful work of producing food in partnership with nature and surrounded by wood thrush, meadowlark, and song sparrow, all of them singing away. In the garden, the Why Witch disappears from my consciousness. I no longer ask stupid questions for which there are no answers.
Gene Logsdon
Gene Everlasting
