Dear Mother Earth,

I have always associated your preservation with a certain level of misery.  I was raised in a household where your name was often mentioned when my childhood pleasures were being restricted.  Growing up without Lunchables, a well-packaged treat that is apparently an “ecological disaster,” is not a hardship I’m ready to forgive you for.  Let’s just say I have always liked you WAY less than my other parent, Father Christmas.

As I got older, I began to understand the importance of respecting you, but caring for you became no less miserable.  My feelings toward you now also included guilt.  Every time I did something that I knew hurt you – like driving my own car to work when both of my roommates worked in the same building – I felt myself having to defend myself to you for my bad behavior.

“Sorry, but we all have slightly different sleep patterns!  I recycle, what more do you want from me?!”

I wanted to make you happy, but what I was doing was never enough.

Well Mother E., after years of resentment and guilt, I’m writing to tell you that I’ve recently had a revelation: being a good daughter to you actually requires way less effort than I thought!

It all started when we made a compost bin.  First of all, drilling holes into a plastic container and cutting out its bottom with a utility knife is the most enjoyable thing I have ever done on your behalf.  Second, it turns out that composting is not that nasty or hard!  I thought saving you would smell like an alley in Ocean Beach and take up a lot of my precious crossword time.  Actually, I walk a shorter distance to our compost bin than I do to the trash can and it just smells sorta earthy.  Third, did you know how much shit you can actually compost?  Coffee grounds, tea bags, paper towels; every time I turn around Kristy is showing me something else that I have incorrectly directed toward a landfill rather than back into your blessed loins.  I find that neat.

Go on, say it. "It's breathtaking".

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